1902
One
day last week I rode from Boston to New York occupying a seat directly behind
one in which sat Miss Mary MacLean, the tumultuous young author from Butte,
Montana. This fortunate circumstance I looked upon as being somewhat of a
coincidence since I have been saying no end of nice things in verse and prose
about the young lady in the papers since her arrival in Cambridge. It gave me a
chance to study the Montana product, as it were, “off the stage”.
There
was no posing. She was simply a passenger, reading “Vogue” and Hamlin Garland’s
“Captains of the White Horse Troop”, when she was not staring blankly from her
car window. A large part of her time, however, was spent gazing at the utter
“Nothingness” one always sees while upon a railway journey. Happy in the belief
that she was unrecognized, her air of defiance and “being on guard against
tiresome newspaper men”, was entirely dropped, and she was the little, listless
MacLane of far-off Butte.
She
was accompanied to her car seat by an attractive young lady, who did all the
talking, and much of the kissing just before the train pulled out. As they
parted Miss MacLane held up a warning finger and said to her companion in a
loud whisper: “not a word of this to The
Globe or any other paper, mind you!”
These
hurriedly whispered words put me on my guard and I watched closely for further
developments. They soon came. She opened her travelling case, which rested on
the seat beside her, to take out “Ham” Garland’s latest book and the first
thing I noticed was “Fido”, the same dear little Fido of which the papers have
said so much. He is a very pretty little alarm clock, and he and Miss MacLane
are inseparable. Wedged between some other articles was a tooth brush – one of
the immortal six!
Miss
MacLane is an admirer of “Ham” Garland’s work, and I noticed that the book was
well worn, as if from much handling.
Then
came the sensation of the journey. A newsboy came through the train shrilly
crying his wares, prominent among which was “The tory of Mary MacLane”! I
leaned forward to watch the expression of her face. It had changed to one of
commercial interest. She glanced slyly up at the pile of books on the boy’s arm
and her eyes beheld a half dozen copies at the top. I held up the boy, and
bending as closely as I dared to the ear of Mary MacLane, I inquired of the
book vender: “How does the MacLane book sell?”
“Bully,”
was the reply.
“That’s
funny,” I replied, forcing as much sarcasm into my voice as possible.
“Why?”
inquired the astonished boy.
“Well,
it’s no good,” I replied. “It’s blanket-blank trash.”
The
game worked. I was now sure that my suspicions were true. The MacLane half rose
from her seat and glared at me as only an indignant author can when his work is
being crushed under foot. She was about to speak when suddenly he remembered
that she was Mary MacLane, and sank sulkily into her seat again.
“Want
a copy of the book?” asked the boy, holding one close to my face.
“Yea,”
I replied, fishing out the price, “I want one for a friend of mine whom I have
advised to read it.”
I
purchased the book and the boy went on his way. When he returned I noticed that
all the MacLane books had disappeared.
“All
sold out?” I asked.
“Yes
sir,” he replied, happily. “The book may not be any good, but it’s the best
seller on the train.”
“Oh
well, she’ll do better next time,” I responded, and the boy hurried forward for
more of the MacLane books.
The
publisher of “The Story of Mary MacLane”, however, has played a neat joke upon
the people. The portrait in the front of the book evidently is not a likeness
of the girl who came East as Mary MacLane, the author. Possibly it is a
portrait of her taken when she was, say, sixteen or seventeen, but it will not
do as a likeness of the Mary MacLane of today. Her face is larger, coarser and
her features more irregular, but none the less interesting. She has purpose now
depicted on her every feature. There is a world of thought, intellect, charm
and restrained power in the face of Mary MacLane. She will be heard from again,
in a somewhat line, and will create a larger sensation than her first book
produced. “Her good woman’s body” is a storehouse of energy, and her head is
overcrowded with ideas and ambitions, which time will sort out and systemize, and
the world will receive the benefit of her rich and active brain.
The
remainder of the journey Miss MacLane kept strictly to herself, never once
favoring me with so much as a withering side glance. Long before the train
reached New York she became travel weary and rested her head on the back of the
seat. This brought the long, flowing ends of a blue veil with large white spot
temptingly close to my knees, so watching my opportunity I clipped a corner of
the filmy stuff with my pocket scissors, and which I now carry on my notebook
for a souvenir.
In
the bustle of the immense throng at the Grand Central Station I lost sight of
her, and I suppose thus terminated my first and last meeting with Mary MacLane
the literary “genius” from Butte, Montana.
(Probably 1903, based on the publication dates of the cited
books)
Joe Cone
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_MacLane
Mary MacLane (May 1, 1881 — c. 6 August 1929) was a controversial Canadian- born American writer whose frank memoirs helped usher in the confessional style of autobiographical writing MacLane was known as the "Wild Woman of Butte".
MacLane was a very popular author for her time, scandalizing the populace with her shocking bestselling first memoir and to a lesser extent her two following books. She was considered wild and uncontrolled, a reputation she nurtured, and was openly bisexual as well as a vocal feminist. In her writings, she compared herself to another frank young memoirist, Marie Bashkirtseff, who died a few years after MacLane was born, and H. L. Mencken called her "the Butte Bashkirtseff."
1911
The Story of Mary MacLane (1902)
“Always I take a little clock to bed with me and hang it by a cord at the head of my bed, for company. I have named the clock Little Fido as it is so constant and ticks always. It is beginning to stand in the same relation to me as J.T. Trowbridge’s magazine. If I were to go away from here I should take Little Fido and the magazine with me. –”
The Story of Mary Maclane, aka ‘I Await the Devil’s Coming’
“I am not undergoing an Inquisition, nor am I a convict in solitary confinement. But I live in a house with people who affect me mostly with their toothbrushes – and those I should like, above all things, to gather up and pitch out the bath-room window – and oh, damn them, damn them!
You who read this, can you understand the bitterness and hatred that is contained in this for me? Perhaps you can a little if you are a woman and have felt yourself alone.
When I look at the six tooth-brushes a fierce, lurid storm of rage and passion comes over me. Two heavy leaden hands lay hold of my life and press, press, press. They strike the sick weariness to my inmost soul.
Oh, to leave this house and these people, and this intense Nothingness – oh, to pass out from them, forever! But where can I go, what can I do? I feel mad with fury that I am helpless. The grasp of the step-father and mother is contemptible and absurd – but with the persistence and tenacity of narrow minds. It is like the two heavy leaded hands. It is not seen – it is not tangible. It is felt.
Once I took away my own solver-handled tooth-brush from the bathroom ledge, and kept it in my bed-room for a day or two. I thought to lessen the effect of the six.
I put it back in the bathroom.
The absence of one accentuated the significant damnation of the others. There was something more forcibly maddening in the five than in the six tooth-brushes. The damnation was not worse, but it developed my feeling about them more vividly.
So I put my tooth-brush back in the bathroom.”
‘The Story of Mary Maclane’, aka ‘I Await the Devil’s Coming’
“The Devil has given me some good things – for I find that the Devil owns and rules the earth and all that therein is. He has given me, among other things my admirable young woman’s body, which I enjoy thoroughly and with which I am passionately fond.”
The Story of Mary Maclane, aka ‘I Await the Devil’s Coming’
Hannibal Hamlin Garland (September 14, 1860 – March 4, 1940) was an American novelist, poet, psychical researcher[1] essayist, and short story writer. He is best known for his fiction involving hard-working Midwestern farmers.[2]
The Captain of the Gray-Horse Troop (1902)
1891
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