Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  SOLDIER. — Why wear a cap and bells?

  FOOL. — I hasten to crave pardon, and if spared will at once exchange them.

  S. — For what?

  F. — A helmet and feather.

  S. — G “hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs.”

  F.—’T is only wisdom should be bound in calf.

  S. — Why?

  F. — Because wisdom is the veal of which folly is the matured beef.

  S. — Then folly should be garbed in cow-skin?

  F. — Aye, that it might the more speedily appear for what it is — the naked truth.

  S. — How should it?

  F. — You would soon strip off its hide to make harness and trappings withal. No one thinks how much conquerors owe to cows.

  FOOL. — Tell me, hero, what is strategy?

  SOLDIER. — The art of laying two knives against one throat.

  F. — And what are tactics?

  S. — The art of driving them home.

  F. — Supermundane lexicographer!

  S. — I’ll bust thy crust! (Attempts to draw his sword, gets it between his legs, and falls along.)

  F. (from a distance) — Shall I summon an army, or a sexton? And will you have it of bronze, or marble?

  FOOL. — When you have gained a great victory, how much of the glory goes to the horse whose back you bestrode?

  SOLDIER. — Nonsense! A horse cannot appreciate glory; he prefers corn.

  F. — And this you call non-appreciation! But listen. (Reads) “During the Crusades, a part of the armament of a Turkish ship was two hundred serpents.” In the pursuit of glory you are at least not above employing humble auxiliaries. These be curious allies.

  S. — What stuff a fool may talk! No true soldier would pit a serpent against a brave enemy. These worms were sailors.

  F. — A nice distinction, truly! Did you ever, my most acute professor of vivisection, employ your trenchant blade in the splitting of hairs?

  S. — I have split masses of them.

  FOOL. — Speaking of the Crusades: at the siege of Acre, when a part of the wall had been thrown down by the Christians, the Pisans rushed into the breach, but the greater part of their army being at dinner, they were bloodily repulsed.

  SOLDIER. — You appear to have a minute acquaintance with military history.

  F. — Yes — being a fool. But was it not a sin and a shame that those feeders should not stir from their porridge to succour their suffering comrades?

  S. — Pray why should a man neglect his business to oblige a friend?

  F. — But they might have taken and sacked the city.

  S. — The selfish gluttons!

  SOLDIER. — Your presumption grows intolerable; I’ll hold no further parley with thee.

  FOOL.—”Herculean gentleman, I dread thy drubs; pity the lifted whites of both my eyes!”

  S. — Then speak no more of the things you do but imperfectly understand.

  F. — Such censorship would doom all tongues to silence. But show me wherein my knowledge is deficient.

  S. — What is an abattis?

  F. — Rubbish placed in front of a fort, to keep the rubbish outside from getting at the rubbish inside.

  S. — Egad! I’ll part thy hair!

  DIVERS TALES.

  THE GRATEFUL BEAR.

  I hope all my little readers have heard the story of Mr. Androcles and the lion; so I will relate it as nearly as I can remember it, with the caution that Androcles must not be confounded with the lion. If I had a picture representing Androcles with a silk hat, and the lion with a knot in his tail, the two might readily be distinguished; but the artist says he won’t make any such picture, and we must try to get on without.

  One day Androcles was gathering truffles in a forest, when he found a lion’s den; and, walking into it, he lay down and slept. It was a custom, in his time, to sleep in lions’ dens when practicable. The lion was absent, inspecting a zoological garden, and did not return until late; but he did return. He was surprised to find a stranger in his menagerie without a ticket; but, supposing him to be some contributor to a comic paper, did not eat him: he was very well satisfied not to be eaten by him. Presently Androcles awoke, wishing he had some seltzer water, or something. (Seltzer water is good after a night’s debauch, and something — it is difficult to say what — is good to begin the new debauch with). Seeing the lion eyeing him, he began hastily to pencil his last will and testament upon the rocky floor of the den. What was his surprise to see the lion advance amicably and extend his right forefoot! Androcles, however, was equal to the occasion: he met the friendly overture with a cordial grasp of the hand, whereat the lion howled — for he had a carpet-tack in his foot. Perceiving that he had made a little mistake, Androcles made such reparation as was in his power by pulling out the tack and putting it in his own foot.

  After this the beast could not do too much for him. He went out every morning — carefully locking the door behind him — and returned every evening, bringing in a nice fat baby from an adjacent village, and laying it gratefully at his benefactor’s feet. For the first few days something seemed to have gone wrong with the benefactor’s appetite, but presently he took very kindly to the new diet; and, as he could not get away, he lodged there, rent-free, all the days of his life — which terminated very abruptly one evening when the lion had not met with his usual success in hunting.

  All this has very little to do with my story: I throw it in as a classical allusion, to meet the demands of a literary fashion which has its origin in the generous eagerness of writers to give the public more than it pays for. But the story of Androcles was a favourite with the bear whose adventures I am about to relate.

  One day this crafty brute carefully inserted a thorn between two of his toes, and limped awkwardly to the farm-house of Dame Pinworthy, a widow, who with two beautiful whelps infested the forest where he resided. He knocked at the open door, sent in his card, and was duly admitted to the presence of the lady, who inquired his purpose. By way of “defining his position” he held up his foot, and snuffled very dolorously. The lady adjusted her spectacles, took the paw in her lap (she, too, had heard the tale of Androcles), and, after a close scrutiny, discovered the thorn, which, as delicately as possible, she extracted, the patient making wry faces and howling dismally the while.

  When it was all over, and she had assured him there was no charge, his gratitude was a passion to observe! He desired to embrace her at once; but this, although a widow of seven years’ standing, she would by no means permit; she said she was not personally averse to hugging, “but what would her dear departed — boo-hoo! — say of it?” This was very absurd, for Mr. Boo-hoo had seven feet of solid earth above him, and it couldn’t make much difference what he said, even supposing he had enough tongue left to say anything, which he had not. However, the polite beast respected her scruples; so the only way in which he could testify his gratitude was by remaining to dinner. They had the housedog for dinner that day, though, from some false notion of hospitable etiquette, the woman and children did not take any.

  On the next day, punctually at the same hour, the bear came again with another thorn, and stayed to dinner as before. It was not much of a dinner this time — only the cat, and a roll of stair-carpet, with one or two pieces of sheet music; but true gratitude does not despise even the humblest means of expression. The succeeding day he came as before; but after being relieved of his torment, he found nothing prepared for him. But when he took to thoughtfully licking one of the little girl’s hands, “that answered not with a caress,” the mother thought better of it, and drove in a small heifer.

  He now came every day; he was so old a friend that the formality of extracting the thorn was no longer observed; it would have contributed nothing to the good understanding that existed between him and the widow. He thought that three or four instances of Good Samaritanism afforded ample matter for perpetual gratitude. His constant visits were bad for the live stock of the farm;
for some kind of beast had to be in readiness each day to furnish forth the usual feast, and this prevented multiplication. Most of the textile fabrics, too, had disappeared; for the appetite of this animal was at the same time cosmopolitan and exacting: it would accept almost anything in the way of entremets, but something it would have. A hearthrug, a hall-mat, a cushion, mattress, blanket, shawl, or other article of wearing apparel — anything, in short, that was easy of ingestion was graciously approved. The widow tried him once with a box of coals as dessert to some barn-yard fowls; but this he seemed to regard as a doubtful comestible, seductive to the palate, but obstinate in the stomach. A look at one of the children always brought him something else, no matter what he was then engaged on.

  It was suggested to Mrs. Pinworthy that she should poison the bear; but, after trying about a hundredweight of strychnia, arsenic, and Prussic acid, without any effect other than what might be expected from mild tonics, she thought it would not be right to go into toxicology. So the poor Widow Pinworthy went on, patiently enduring the consumption of her cattle, sheep, and hogs, the evaporation of her poultry, and the taking off of her bed linen, until there were left only the clothing of herself and children, some curtains, a sickly lamb, and a pet pigeon. When the bear came for these she ventured to expostulate. In this she was perfectly successful: the animal permitted her to expostulate as long as she liked. Then he ate the lamb and pigeon, took in a dish-cloth or two, and went away just as contentedly as if she had not uttered a word.

  Nothing edible now stood between her little daughters and the grave. Her mental agony was painful to her mind; she could scarcely have suffered more without an increase of unhappiness. She was roused to desperation; and next day, when she saw the bear leaping across the fields toward the house, she staggered from her seat and shut the door. It was singular what a difference it made; she always remembered it after that, and wished she had thought of it before.

  THE SETTING SACHEM.

  ‘Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine,

  Who stood on the ocean’s rim;

  There were numberless leagues of excellent brine —

  But there wasn’t enough for him.

  So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye,

  And added a tear to the scant supply.

  The surges were breaking with thund’rous voice,

  The winds were a-shrieking shrill;

  This warrior thought that a trifle of noise

  Was needed to fill the bill.

  So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled —

  Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!

  The sun was aflame in a field of gold

  That hung o’er the Western Sea;

  Bright banners of light were broadly unrolled,

  As banners of light should be.

  But no one was “speaking a piece” to that sun,

  And therefore this Medicine Man begun:

  “O much heap of bright! O big ball of warm!

  I’ve tracked you from sea to sea!

  For the Paleface has been at some pains to inform

  Me, you are the emblem of me.

  He says to me, cheerfully: ‘Westward Ho!’

  And westward I’ve hoed a most difficult row.

  “Since you are the emblem of me, I presume

  That I am the emblem of you,

  And thus, as we’re equals, ‘t is safe to assume,

  That one great law governs us two.

  So now if I set in the ocean with thee,

  With thee I shall rise again out of the sea.”

  His eloquence first, and his logic the last!

  Such orators die! — and he died:

  The trump was against him — his luck bad — he “passed” —

  And so he “passed out” — with the tide.

  This Injin is rid of the world with a whim —

  The world it is rid of his speeches and him.

  FEODORA.

  Madame Yonsmit was a decayed gentlewoman who carried on her decomposition in a modest wayside cottage in Thuringia. She was an excellent sample of the Thuringian widow, a species not yet extinct, but trying very hard to become so. The same may be said of the whole genus. Madame Yonsmit was quite young, very comely, cultivated, gracious, and pleasing. Her home was a nest of domestic virtues, but she had a daughter who reflected but little credit upon the nest. Feodora was indeed a “bad egg” — a very wicked and ungrateful egg. You could see she was by her face. The girl had the most vicious countenance — it was repulsive! It was a face in which boldness struggled for the supremacy with cunning, and both were thrashed into subjection by avarice. It was this latter virtue in Feodora which kept her mother from having a taxable income.

  Feodora’s business was to beg on the highway. It wrung the heart of the honest amiable gentlewoman to have her daughter do this; but the h.a.g. having been reared in luxury, considered labour degrading — which it is — and there was not much to steal in that part of Thuringia. Feodora’s mendicity would have provided an ample fund for their support, but unhappily that ingrate would hardly ever fetch home more than two or three shillings at a time. Goodness knows what she did with the rest.

  Vainly the good woman pointed out the sin of coveteousness; vainly she would stand at the cottage door awaiting the child’s return, and begin arguing the point with her the moment she came in sight: the receipts diminished daily until the average was less than tenpence — a sum upon which no born gentlewoman would deign to exist. So it became a matter of some importance to know where Feodora kept her banking account. Madame Yonsmit thought at first she would follow her and see; but although the good lady was as vigorous and sprightly as ever, carrying a crutch more for ornament than use, she abandoned this plan because it did not seem suitable to the dignity of a decayed gentlewoman. She employed a detective.

  The foregoing particulars I have from Madame Yonsmit herself; for those immediately subjoining I am indebted to the detective, a skilful officer named Bowstr.

  No sooner had the scraggy old hag communicated her suspicions than the officer knew exactly what to do. He first distributed hand-bills all over the country, stating that a certain person suspected of concealing money had better look sharp. He then went to the Home Secretary, and by not seeking to understate the real difficulties of the case, induced that functionary to offer a reward of a thousand pounds for the arrest of the malefactor. Next he proceeded to a distant town, and took into custody a clergyman who resembled Feodora in respect of wearing shoes. After these formal preliminaries he took up the case with some zeal. He was not at all actuated by a desire to obtain the reward, but by pure love of justice. The thought of securing the girl’s private hoard for himself never for a moment entered his head.

  He began to make frequent calls at the widow’s cottage when Feodora was at home, when, by apparently careless conversation, he would endeavour to draw her out; but he was commonly frustrated by her old beast of a mother, who, when the girl’s answers did not suit, would beat her unmercifully. So he took to meeting Feodora on the highway, and giving her coppers carefully marked. For months he kept this up with wonderful self-sacrifice — the girl being a mere uninteresting angel. He met her daily in the roads and forest. His patience never wearied, his vigilance never flagged. Her most careless glances were conscientiously noted, her lightest words treasured up in his memory. Meanwhile (the clergyman having been unjustly acquitted) he arrested everybody he could get his hands on. Matters went on in this way until it was time for the grand coup.

  The succeeding-particulars I have from the lips of Feodora herself.

  When that horrid Bowstr first came to the house Feodora thought he was rather impudent, but said, little about it to her mother — not desiring to have her back broken. She merely avoided him as much as she dared, he was so frightfully ugly. But she managed to endure him until he took to waylaying her on the highway, hanging about her all day, interfering with the customers, and walking home with her a
t night. Then her dislike deepened into disgust; and but for apprehensions not wholly unconnected with a certain crutch, she would have sent him about his business in short order. More than a thousand million times she told him to be off and leave her alone, but men are such fools — particularly this one.

  What made Bowstr exceptionally disagreeable was his shameless habit of making fun of Feodora’s mother, whom he declared crazy as a loon. But the maiden bore everything as well as she could, until one day the nasty thing put his arm about her waist and kissed her before her very face; then she felt — well, it is not clear how she felt, but of one thing she was quite sure: after having such a shame put upon her by this insolent brute, she would never go back under her dear mother’s roof — never. She was too proud for that, at any rate. So she ran away with Mr. Bowstr, and married him.

  The conclusion of this history I learned for myself.

  Upon hearing of her daughter’s desertion Madame Yonsmit went clean daft. She vowed she could bear betrayal, could endure decay, could stand being a widow, would not repine at being left alone in her old age (whenever she should become old), and could patiently submit to the sharper than a serpent’s thanks of having a toothless child generally. But to be a mother-in-law! No, no; that was a plane of degradation to which she positively would not descend. So she employed me to cut her throat. It was the toughest throat I ever cut in all my life.

  THE LEGEND OF IMMORTAL TRUTH.

  A bear, having spread him a notable feast,

  Invited a famishing fox to the place.

  “I’ve killed me,” quoth he, “an edible beast

  As ever distended the girdle of priest

  With ‘spread of religion,’ or ‘inward grace.’

  To my den I conveyed her,

  I bled her and flayed her,

  I hung up her skin to dry;