And now, just before twilight, after the sun has vanished over the
edge, is the red, red line on the sky.
There will be days wild and stormy, filled with rain and wind and
hail; and yet nearly always at the sun’s setting there will be
calm--and the red line of sky.
There is nothing in the world quite like this red sky at sunset.
It is Glory, Triumph, Love, Fame!
Imagine a life bereft of things, and fingers pointed at it, and
eyebrows raised; tossed and bandied hither and yon; crushed, beaten,
bled, rent asunder, outraged, convulsed with pain; and then, into
this life while still young, the red, red line of sky!
Why did I cry out against Fate, says the line; why did I rebel
against my term of anguish! I now rather rejoice at it; now in my
Happiness I remember it only with deep pleasure.
Think of that wonderful, admirable, matchless man of steel, Napoleon
Bonaparte. He threw himself heavily on the world, and the world has
never since been the same. He hated himself, and the world, and
God, and Fate, and the Devil. His hatred was his term of anguish.
Then the sun threw on the sky for him a red, red line--the red line
of Triumph, Glory, Fame!
And afterward there was the blackness of Night, the blackness that
is not tender, not gentle.
But black as our Night may be, nothing can take from us the memory
of the red, red sky. “Memory is possession,” and so the red sky we
have with us always.
Oh, Devil, Fate, World--some one, bring me my red sky! For a little
brief time, and I will be satisfied. Bring it to me intensely
red, intensely full, intensely alive! Short as you will, but red,
red, red!
I am weary--weary, and, oh, I want my red sky! Short as it might
be, its memory, its fragrance would stay with me always--always.
Bring me, Devil, my red line of sky for one hour and take all,
_all_--everything I possess. Let me keep my Happiness for one short
hour, and take away all from me forever. I will be satisfied when
Night has come and everything is gone.
Oh, I await you, Devil, in a wild frenzy of impatience!
And as I hurry back through the cool darkness of October, I feel
this frenzy in every fiber of my fervid woman’s-body.
January 19.
I come from a long line of Scotch and Canadian MacLanes. There are
a great many MacLanes, but there is usually only one real MacLane
in each generation. There is but one who feels again the passionate
spirit of the clans, those barbaric dwellers in the bleak, but
well-beloved Highlands of Scotland.
I am the real MacLane of my generation. The real MacLane in these
later centuries is always a woman. The men of the family never amount
to anything worth naming--if one accepts the acme, the zenith, of
pure selfishness, with a large letter “s.” Life may be easy enough
for the innumerable Canadian MacLanes who are not real. But it is
certain to be more or less a Hill of Difficulty for the one who is.
She finds herself somewhat alone. I have brothers and a sister and
a mother in the same house with me--and I find myself somewhat
alone. Between them and me there is no tenderness, no sympathy, no
binding ties. Would it affect me in the least--do you suppose--if
they should all die to-morrow? If I were not a real MacLane perhaps
it would have been different, or perhaps I should not have missed
these things.
How much, Devil, have I lost for the privilege of being a real
MacLane?
But yes, I have also gained much.
January 20.