Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  THE EVOLUTION OF A STORY

  ON a calm evening in the early summer, a young girl stood leaning carelessly against a donkey at the top of Plum Hill, daintily but with considerable skill destroying a biscuit by mastication’s artful aid. The sun had been for some time behind the sea, but the conscious West was still suffused with a faint ruddiness, like the reflection from an army of boiled lobsters marching below the horizon for a flank attack upon the stomach of Boston.

  Slowly and silently the ruby legion held its way. Not a word was spoken; commands given by the general were passed from mouth to mouth, like a single bit of chewing gum amongst the seven children immortalized by Edward Bok, who was more than usually active this evening, if that were possible.

  And it was possible; in no spirit of bravado, but with firm reliance on the blanc mange he had eaten for dinner, and which was even now shaping itself into exquisite fancies in the laboratory of his genius, the great editor had resolved to reach a higher excellence, or perish in the attempt, as the tree frog, baffled by the smooth bark of the beech, falls exhausted into the spanning jaws of the serpent biding his time below.

  Having swallowed the frog, the reptile turned to go away, and by a sinuous course soon reached the highway. Here he stood up and looked about him. There was no living thing in sight. To the right hand and the left the dusty white road stretched away without a break in its dreary, mathematical sameness. Beyond a belt of pines on the opposite side rose a barren, rounded hilltop, resembling the bald crown of a game keeper thrust upward from behind a hedge to offer a shining mark for the poacher.

  Grimly the poacher raised and sighted his gun, charged with a double quantity of heavy slugs. There was a moment of silence — a silence so profound, so deathlike in its intensity, that a keen ear might have heard the spanking of an infant in a distant village.

  This infant had come, no one knew whence. The story went that it had tramped into town one cold morning, with its cradle slung across its back, and after being refused admittance to the hotel, had gone quietly to the back door and lain down, having first written and pinned to its gown the following placard: “This unfortunate child is the natural son of a foreign prince, who until he shall succeed to the throne of his ancestors begs that the illustrious waif may be tenderly cared for. His Royal Highness cannot say how long his own worthless father may continue to disgrace the realm, but hopes not long. At the end of that time, his Royal Highness will appear to the child’s astonished benefactor, crusted as thickly with gems as a toad with warts.”

  These troublesome excrescences had given the poor toad much pain. Everything that science had devised, and skill applied, had been a mere waste of money; and now at the age of four hundred years, with life just opening before him, with other toads reveling about him in all the jump-up-and-come-down-hardness of their hearts he was compelled to drag himself nervelessly through existence, with no more hope of happiness than a piano has of marriage.

  It was not a nice piano; the keys were warped, the mainspring was relaxed, the cogwheels would not have anything to do with one another, and the pendulum would swing only one way. Altogether a disreputable and ridiculous old instrument. But such as it was, it had stood in that dim old attic, man and boy, for more than thirty years. Its very infirmities, by exciting pity, had preserved it; not one of the family would have laid an axe at the root of that piano for as much gold as could be drawn by a team of the strongest horses.

  Of these rare and valuable animals we shall speak in our next chapter.

  THE ALLOTMENT

  “DOUBTLESS we have all great gratitude this night of Thanksgiving. Doubtless, too, we have ample cause and justification, for the dullest crack-brain of us all knows that life might have gone harder with him had the Power that compounds our joys and pains proportioned differently, to that end, the simples of the mixture.”

  So reading, I fell asleep, for I was full of bird. Straight appeared to me an angel, the dexter half of whom was white, the sinister, black — the line of division parting him from the hair down. Two skins of wine he bore; one wine was clear and sweet, and one was dark and bitter exceeding, such as would make a pig squeal. I saw, also, at his feet as he stood, some large glass vessels of even size, marked from bottom to top with a scale, the divisions numbered upward from 1 to 100.

  “Son of Mortality,” said he, “I am the Compounding Power — behold my standard mixture.” So saying he poured into one of the vessels 50 parts of sweet and the same of bitter. “This,” he said, “is without taste. It is for him whom Heaven doth neither bless nor afflict. There is but one such that liveth.”

  “The devil!” I cried, for indeed I greatly marveled that this should be so.

  Said the angel: “Guess again.”

  “Compound now, I beseech thee,” I said, “the best that thou hast use for in thy business: a tipple of surpassing richness — one which maketh the hair to curl.”

  Thereupon he put into the second vessel 1 part of bitter and 9 of sweet. And he looked upon it saying: “It is the best that it is permitted to me to do.”, “Show me,” I said, “the worst; for truly it must be exceeding fierce, slaying at eighty rods.”

  “It is bad to take,” he answered, and straightway poured into the third vessel 10 parts of sweet. Then, upraising the other skin, he filled the vessel to the brim, and a great compassion fell upon my spirit, thinking on the unhappy man who should get himself outside that unholy tope.

  “Behold,” said the angel, “Heaven is just! The ratio of pain to joy in the lot of the happiest mortal is the same as that of joy to pain in his who is most wretched. It is i to 10.” And after some little time he spake again:

  “I’m a dandy for fairness.”

  “True, O Dandy Allotter,” I said: “the proportions are only reversed. But these two vessels, the second and the third, holding the good draught and the bad — lo! the good is but a tenth part full, whilst the latter overfloweth the vessel. Is each quantity a dose?”

  And the angel said: “Each is a dose.” Wherefore I raised my voice against him, and called him out of his name, and cast my pillow upon him, and he departed out of that place with a loud cry. Then they that came in haste to my chamber, unbidden, looked one upon another and said: “He ate of the bird.”

  LACKING FACTORS

  GENDER is the sex of words. But either this matter of sex is imperfectly understood, or Nature has made faulty provision for the duality of things; for history and speech show many melancholy examples of natural celibacy, and Shelley’s dictum that “nothing in the world is single” must be accepted with the large limitation of a comprehensive denial. Who ever heard of an alligatrix? The spinster — has she anywhere a femaler mate, the spinstress? I am told there is an article, a garment, if I have rightly understood — called a garter, and that it has commonly a mate, yet I — know not if any one has seen a gartress. Nor, for that matter, a garter. Has the cypress a lord and master known as the cypor? We hear of personal encounters, but a personal encounter between two ladies is not an encountress. Every one knows that an epistle is a female apostle, but why the male mate of the unlisted himmit should, except for consistency in perversion, be called a hermit, who can say?

  Oddly enough, the shero is unknown to fame. Is there a place beyond the grave of the sinner, called Heol, and was its existence hinted at in the old name for Sheol? In Irish folklore is no mention of the banhee. An ornithologist of even the widest attainments will assure you that the queenfisher is an undiscovered fowl. Ancient history, sacred or profane, is vainly questioned concerning the King of Heba — whom nevertheless, I love to figure to myself as making a long journey to lay countless camel loads of gifts at the feet of the very wisest sovereign in all the world — the queen of the Shebrews.

  A CALIFORNIAN STATESMAN

  PERSONS who have not had the advantage of hearing about the Hon. Henry Vrooman in the past ten or twelve years will be surprised to learn that he is still living. The man has more lives than a ship-load of cats fro
m Malta. In the past few years he has been dying of heart disease so fast that he is in danger of becoming extinct. His death-rate is appalling! He has died in every voting precinct in this part of the state, and his last words are about to be compiled in three volumes. Whenever Mr. Vrooman wants “the suffrages of his fellow-citizens” he gets them together in a hall, makes them a speech, assures them that his sands of life are pretty nearly run out, closes with some neat and appropriate patriotic sentiment suitable to the sad occasion, and then flops down and dies all over the floor. Just before the vital spark is extinct the meeting is adjourned by turning off the gas and the corpse is at liberty to rise and go home. The next morning Mr. Vrooman’s political organ relates how he was snatched from the jaws of death, though his condition is still critical; and the sovereign electors say: “Well, poor feller, he’s on his last legs anyway — guess it won’t do much harm to elect him.” The wretch never drew a cent of salary without committing the crime of obtaining money by false pretenses; he is always elected on the understanding that he is to die.

  But he doesn’t die — he is immortal. The moment that the “innumerable caravan” has passed the polling place he drops out of the procession and hangs about for his certificate of election. Then we hear no more about his poor heart until his term is about to expire, when it begins to trouble him again. He and his term generally manage to expire together in the sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection.

  In the closing hours of the last session of the state senate somebody made a motion to limit all speeches to ten minutes. This brought Mr. Vrooman to his hind feet forthwith. “Mr. President,” he said, “standing as I do upon the threshold of the Unknown, and turning back to address my fellow-citizens for the last time, I feel grateful indeed that an all-wise Providence has so ordered it that my final words can be spoken in advocacy of the righteous and beneficent principle of free speech, and in denunciation of the reptiles who would limit the liberty of debate. With a solemn sense of my responsibility to Him from whom I received my mental powers, and to whom I am so soon to give an account of my stewardship; gazing with a glazing eye upon the transitory scenes of earth, about which ‘the dark Plutonian shadows gather on the evening blast’; conscious that the lutestring is about to snap and the pitcher to be broken at the well, I adjure you, friends of my former days, as in a whisper from the dark, not to let that motion prevail.”

  Wiping a light froth from his lips, the failing senator, with a friend under each arm and a half-dozen volunteer pall-bearers following, solemnly left the chamber to the sound of a dozen busy pens drafting resolutions of respect.

  A moment later Senator Moffitt walked into the hall, dexterously caught the presiding officer’s eye, and said: “Mr. President, it is my mournful duty to apprise this honorable body of my distinguished colleague’s continued existence. Born of poor but thoughtless parents and educated as a blacksmith; gifted with a penetrating intelligence which never failed in the darkest night to distinguish a five-dollar piece from a nickel, yet blessed with an impartial soul which loved the humbler coin as well, in proportion to its value, as the nobler one; blessed with a benevolence which relieved alike the rich man and the poor — the one of his coin, the other of his character; reared in the principles of religion and giving to the worship of himself an incredible devotion — this great man moved among the property of his neighbors, a living instance of the power of personal magnetism and the strength of political attachment. He was a generous man: one-half of all that he took with his right hand he bestowed upon his left. He was a respecter of Truth, and did not profane her with his lips. He was a patriot: other nations might be more powerful in arms, or more glorious in history, but America was good enough for him if he could get it. Withal, he had a tender heart acutely responsive to indigestion and closely identified with the political history of this state. Mr. President, I move that when the senate adjourn to go to luncheon it do so out of respect to the memory of Henry Vrooman. True, he is no deader than he was when he began to die ten years ago, but, sir, a memorial adjournment may have a deeper and better significance than is visible in a mere conformity to fact: it may entoken a pious people’s readiness to submit to a tardy bereavement.”

  Senator Moffitt’s motion was peremptorily and contumeliously declared out of order, and that erring statesman dejectedly took his seat a sadder and a nicer man. It saddens to add that he solaced himself by consuming the public stationery in composing the following discreditable epitaph:

  Step lightly, stranger o’er this holy place,

  Nor push this sacred monument aside,

  Set by his fellow-citizens to grace

  The only spot where Vrooman never died.

  1888.

  THE END

  The Short Stories

  The Union Army’s 9th Indiana Infantry Regiment, c.1862. At the outset of the Civil War, Bierce enlisted in the regiment and participated in the Operations in Western Virginia campaign (1861). He was present at the “first battle” at Philippi and received newspaper attention for his daring rescue, under fire, of a gravely wounded comrade at the Battle of Rich Mountain.

  LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE.

  THE STRONG YOUNG MAN OF COLUSA.

  THE GLAD NEW YEAR.

  THE LATE DOWLING, SENIOR.

  LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

  A COMFORTER.

  LITTLE ISAAC.

  THE HEELS OF HER.

  A TALE OF TWO FEET.

  THE SCOLLIVER PIG.

  MR. HUNKER’S MOURNER.

  A BIT OF CHIVALRY.

  THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.

  DEATHBED REPENTANCE.

  THE NEW CHURCH THAT WAS NOT BUILT.

  A TALE OF THE GREAT QUAKE.

  JOHNNY.

  THE CHILD’S PROVIDER.

  BOYS WHO BEGAN WRONG.

  A KANSAS INCIDENT.

  MR. GRILE’S GIRL.

  HIS RAILWAY.

  MR. GISH MAKES A PRESENT.

  A COW–COUNTY PLEASANTRY.

  THE OPTIMIST, AND WHAT HE DIED OF.

  THE ROOT OF EDUCATION.

  RETRIBUTION.

  MARGARET THE CHILDLESS.

  THE DISCOMFITED DEMON.

  THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE.

  L. S.

  THE BAFFLED ASIAN.

  A CALL TO DINNER.

  ON DEATH AND IMMORTALITY.

  MUSIC–MUSCULAR AND MECHANICAL.

  THE GOOD YOUNG MAN.

  THE AVERAGE PARSON.

  DID WE EAT ONE ANOTHER?

  YOUR FRIEND’S FRIEND.

  LE DIABLE EST AUX VACHES.

  ANGELS AND ANGLES.

  A WINGLESS INSECT.

  PORK ON THE HOOF.

  THE YOUNG PERSON.

  A CERTAIN POPULAR FALLACY.

  PASTORAL JOURNALISM.

  MENDICITY’S MISTAKE.

  PICNICKING CONSIDERED AS A MISTAKE.

  THANKSGIVING DAY.

  FLOGGING.

  REFLECTIONS UPON THE BENEFICENT INFLUENCE OF THE PRESS.

  CHARITY.

  THE STUDY OF HUMAN NATURE.

  ADDITIONAL TALK–DONE IN THE COUNTRY.

  CHRISTIANS.

  PAGANS.

  FABLES OF ZAMBRI, THE PARSEE.

  DIVERS TALES.

  THE GRATEFUL BEAR.

  THE SETTING SACHEM.

  FEODORA.

  THE LEGEND OF IMMORTAL TRUTH.

  CONVERTING A PRODIGAL.

  FOUR JACKS AND A KNAVE.

  DR. DEADWOOD, I PRESUME.

  NUT-CRACKING.

  THE MAGICIAN’S LITTLE JOKE.

  SEAFARING.

  TONY ROLLO’S CONCLUSION.

  NO CHARGE FOR ATTENDANCE.

  PERNICKETTY’S FRIGHT.

  JUNIPER.

  FOLLOWING THE SEA.

  A TALE OF SPANISH VENGEANCE.

  MRS. DENNISON’S HEAD.

  A FOWL WITCH.

  THE CIVIL SERVICE IN FLORIDA.

  A TALE
OF THE BOSPHORUS.

  JOHN SMITH, LIBERATOR

  SUNDERED HEARTS.

  THE EARLY HISTORY OF BATH.

  THE FOLLOWING DORG.

  SNAKING.

  MAUD’S PAPA.

  JIM BECKWOURTH’S POND.

  STRINGING A BEAR.

  PRESENT AT A HANGING

  A COLD GREETING

  A WIRELESS MESSAGE

  AN ARREST

  A MAN WITH TWO LIVES

  THREE AND ONE ARE ONE

  A BAFFLED AMBUSCADE

  TWO MILITARY EXECUTIONS

  THE ISLE OF PINES

  A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT

  A VINE ON A HOUSE

  AT OLD MAN ECKERT’S

  THE SPOOK HOUSE

  THE OTHER LODGERS

  THE THING AT NOLAN

  MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES

  THE DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD

  AN UNFINISHED RACE

  CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL

  SCIENCE TO THE FRONT

  A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY

  AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE

  CHICKAMAUGA

  A SON OF THE GODS

  ONE OF THE MISSING

  KILLED AT RESACA

  THE AFFAIR AT COULTER’S NOTCH

  THE COUP DE GRCE

  PARKER ADDERSON, PHILOSOPHER

  AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS

  THE STORY OF A CONSCIENCE

  ONE KIND OF OFFICER

  ONE OFFICER, ONE MAN

  GEORGE THURSTON

  THE MOCKING-BIRD

  THE MAN OUT OF THE NOSE

  AN ADVENTURE AT BROWNVILLE

  THE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST

  THE APPLICANT

  A WATCHER BY THE DEAD

  THE MAN AND THE SNAKE

  A HOLY TERROR

  THE SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS

  THE BOARDED WINDOW

  A LADY FROM REDHORSE