Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  The next time I go to “the Bay” I shall go to 1019 first.

  God bless you for a good girl.

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [First part of this letter missing.]

  * * * * *

  Yes, I know Blackburn Harte has a weakness for the proletariat of letters * * * and doubtless thinks Riley good because he is “of the people,” peoply. But he will have to endure me as well as he can. You ask my opinion of Burns. He has not, I think, been translated into English, and I do not (that is, I can but will not) read that gibberish. I read Burns once — that was once too many times; but happily it was before I knew any better, and so my time, being worthless, was not wasted.

  I wish you could be up here this beautiful weather. But I dare say it would rain if you came. In truth, it is “thickening” a trifle just because of my wish. And I wish I had given you, for your father, all the facts of my biography from the cradle — downward. When you come again I shall, if you still want them. For I’m worried half to death with requests for them, and when I refuse am no doubt considered surly or worse. And my refusal no longer serves, for the biography men are beginning to write my history from imagination. So the next time I see you I shall give you (orally) that “history of a crime,” my life. Then, if your father is still in the notion, he can write it from your notes, and I can answer all future inquiries by enclosing his article.

  Do you know? — you will, I think, be glad to know — that I have many more offers for stories at good prices, than I have the health to accept. (For I am less nearly well than I have told you.) Even the Examiner has “waked up” (I woke it up) to the situation, and now pays me $20 a thousand words; and my latest offer from New York is $50.

  I hardly know why I tell you this unless it is because you tell me of any good fortune that comes to your people, and because you seem to take an interest in my affairs such as nobody else does in just the same unobjectionable and, in fact, agreeable way. I wish you were my “real, sure-enough” niece. But in that case I should expect you to pass all your time at Howell Mountain, with your uncle and cousin. Then I should teach you to write, and you could expound to me the principles underlying the art of being the best girl in the world. Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  1893.

  [Angwin, January 4, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  Not hearing from [you] after writing you last week, I fear you are ill — may I not know? I am myself ill, as I feared. On Thursday last I was taken violently ill indeed, and have but just got about. In truth, I’m hardly able to write you, but as I have to go to work on Friday, sure, I may as well practice a little on you. And the weather up here is Paradisaical. Leigh and I took a walk this morning in the woods. We scared up a wild deer, but I did not feel able to run it down and present you with its antlers.

  I hope you are well, that you are all well. And I hope Heaven will put it into your good brother’s heart to send me that picture of the sister who is so much too good for him — or anybody.

  In the meantime, and always, God bless you.

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  My boy (who has been an angel of goodness to me in my illness) sends his love to you and all your people.

  [Angwin, Cal., January 14, 1893.]

  MY DEAR PARTINGTON,

  You see the matter is this way. You can’t come up here and go back the same day — at least that would give you but about an hour here. You must remain over night. Now I put it to you — how do you think I’d feel if you came and remained over night and I, having work to do, should have to leave you to your own devices, mooning about a place that has nobody to talk to? When a fellow comes a long way to see me I want to see a good deal of him, however he may feel about it. It is not the same as if he lived in the same bailiwick and “dropped in.” That is why, in the present state of my health and work, I ask all my friends to give me as long notice of their coming as possible. I’m sure you’ll say I am right, inasmuch as certain work if undertaken must be done by the time agreed upon.

  My relations with Danziger are peculiar — as any one’s relations with him must be. In the matter of which you wished to speak I could say nothing. For this I must ask you to believe there are reasons. It would not have been fair not to let you know, before coming, that I would not talk of him.

  I thought, though, that you would probably come up to-day if I wrote you. Well, I should like you to come and pass a week with me. But if you come for a day I naturally want it to be an “off” day with me. Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, January 23, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  I should have written you sooner; it has been ten whole days since the date of your last letter. But I have not been in the mood of letter writing, and am prepared for maledictions from all my neglected friends but you. My health is better. Yesterday I returned from Napa, where I passed twenty-six hours, buried, most of the time, in fog; but apparently it has not harmed me. The weather here remains heavenly. * * *

  If I grow better in health I shall in time feel able to extend my next foray into the Lowlands as far as Oakland and Berkeley.

  Here are some fronds of maiden-hair fern that I have just brought in. The first wild flowers of the season are beginning to venture out and the manzanitas are a sight to see.

  With warmest regards to all your people, I am, as ever, your most unworthy uncle,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, February 5, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  What an admirable reporter you would be! Your account of the meeting with Miller in the restaurant and of the “entertainment” are amusing no end. * * * By the way, I observe a trooly offle “attack” on me in the Oakland Times of the 3rd (I think) * * * (I know of course it means me — I always know that when they pull out of their glowing minds that old roasted chestnut about “tearing down” but not “building up” — that is to say, effacing one imposture without giving them another in place of it.) The amusing part of the business is that he points a contrast between me and Realf (God knows there’s unlikeness enough) quite unconscious of the fact that it is I and no other who have “built up” Realf’s reputation as a poet — published his work, and paid him for it, when nobody else would have it; repeatedly pointed out its greatness, and when he left that magnificent crown of sonnets behind him protested that posterity would know California better by the incident of his death than otherwise — not a soul, until now, concurring in my view of the verses. Believe me, my trade is not without its humorous side.

  Leigh and I went down to the waterfall yesterday. It was almost grand — greater than I had ever seen it — and I took the liberty to wish that you might see it in that state. My wish must have communicated itself, somehow, though imperfectly, to Leigh, for as I was indulging it he expressed the same wish with regard to Richard.

  I wish too that you might be here to-day to see the swirls of snow. It is falling rapidly, and I’m thinking that this letter will make its way down the mountain to-morrow morning through a foot or two of it. Unluckily, it has a nasty way of turning to rain.

  My health is very good now, and Leigh and I take long walks. And after the rains we look for Indian arrow-heads in the plowed fields and on the gravel bars of the creek. My collection is now great; but I fear I shall tire of the fad before completing it. One in the country must have a fad or die of dejection and oxidation of the faculties. How happy is he who can make a fad of his work!

  By the way, my New York publishers (The United States Book Company) have failed, owing me a pot of money, of which I shall probably get nothing. I’m beginning to cherish an impertinent curiosity to know what Heaven means to do to me next. If your function as one of the angels gives you a knowledge of such matters please betray your trust and tell me where I’m to be hit, and how hard.

  But this is an intolerable deal of letter.

  With best regards to all good Partingtons — and I think there are no others — I rem
ain your affectionate uncle by adoption,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  Leigh has brought in some manzanita blooms which I shall try to enclose. But they’ll be badly smashed.

  [Angwin, February 14, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  I thank you many times for the picture, which is a monstrous good picture, whatever its shortcomings as a portrait may be. On the authority of the great art critic, Leigh Bierce, I am emboldened to pronounce some of the work in it equal to Gribayedoff at his best; and that, according to the g. a. c. aforesaid, is to exhaust eulogium. But — it isn’t altogether the Blanche that I know, as I know her. Maybe it is the hat — I should prefer you hatless, and so less at the mercy of capricious fortune. Suppose hats were to “go out” — I tremble to think of what would happen to that gorgeous superstructure which now looks so beautiful. O, well, when I come down I shall drag you to the hateful photographer and get something that looks quite like you — and has no other value.

  And I mean to “see Oakland and die” pretty soon. I have not dared go when the weather was bad. It promises well now, but I am to have visitors next Sunday, so must stay at home. God and the weather bureau willing, you may be bothered with me the Saturday or Sunday after. We shall see.

  I hope your father concurs in my remarks on picture “borders” — I did not think of him until the remarks had been written, or I should have assured myself of his practice before venturing to utter my mind o’ the matter. If it were not for him and Gertrude and the Wave I should snarl again, anent “half-tones,” which I abhor. Hume tried to get me to admire his illustrations, but I would not, so far as the process is concerned, and bluntly told him he would not get your father’s best work that way.

  If you were to visit the Mountain now I should be able to show you a redwood forest (newly discovered) and a picturesque gulch to match.

  The wild flowers are beginning to put up their heads to look for you, and my collection of Indian antiquities is yearning to have you see it.

  Please convey my thanks to Richard for the picture — the girlscape — and my best regards to your father and all the others.

  Sincerely your friend,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, February 21, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  I’m very sorry indeed that I cannot be in Oakland Thursday evening to see you “in your glory,” arrayed, doubtless, like a lily of the field. However glorious you may be in public, though, I fancy I should like you better as you used to be out at camp.

  Well, I mean to see you on Saturday afternoon if you are at home, and think I shall ask you to be my guide to Grizzlyville; for surely I shall never be able to find the wonderful new house alone. So if your mamma will let you go out there with me I promise to return you to her instead of running away with you. And, possibly, weather permitting, we can arrange for a Sunday in the redwoods or on the hills. Or don’t your folks go out any more o’ Sundays?

  Please give my thanks to your mother for the kind invitation to put up at your house; but I fear that would be impossible. I shall have to be where people can call on me — and such a disreputable crowd as my friends are would ruin the Partingtonian reputation for respectability. In your new neighborhood you will all be very proper — which you could hardly be with a procession of pirates and vagrants pulling at your door-bell.

  So — if God is good — I shall call on you Saturday afternoon. In the meantime and always be thou happy — thou and thine. Your unworthy uncle,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, March 18, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  It is good to have your letters again. If you will not let me teach you my trade of writing stories it is right that you practice your own of writing letters. You are mistress of that. Byron’s letters to Moore are dull in comparison with yours to me. Some allowance, doubtless, must be made for my greater need of your letters than of Byron’s. For, truth to tell, I’ve been a trifle dispirited and noncontent. In that mood I peremptorily resigned from the Examiner, for one thing — and permitted myself to be coaxed back by Hearst, for another. My other follies I shall not tell you. * * *

  We had six inches of snow up here and it has rained steadily ever since — more than a week. And the fog is of superior opacity — quite peerless that way. It is still raining and fogging. Do you wonder that your unworthy uncle has come perilously and alarmingly near to loneliness? Yet I have the companionship, at meals, of one of your excellent sex, from San Francisco. * * *

  Truly, I should like to attend one of your at-homes, but I fear it must be a long time before I venture down there again. But when this brumous visitation is past I can look down, and that assists the imagination to picture you all in your happy (I hope) home. But if that woolly wolf, Joaquin Miller, doesn’t keep outside the fold I shall come down and club him soundly. I quite agree with your mother that his flattery will spoil you. You said I would spoil Phyllis, and now, you bad girl, you wish to be spoiled yourself. Well, you can’t eat four Millerine oranges. — My love to all your family.

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, March 26, 1893.]

  MY DEAR PARTINGTON,

  I am very glad indeed to get the good account of Leigh that you give me. I’ve feared that he might be rather a bore to you, but you make me easy on that score. Also I am pleased that you think he has a sufficient “gift” to do something in the only direction in which he seems to care to go.

  He is anxious to take the place at the Examiner, and his uncle thinks that would be best — if they will give it him. I’m a little reluctant for many reasons, but there are considerations — some of them going to the matter of character and disposition — which point to that as the best arrangement. The boy needs discipline, control, and work. He needs to learn by experience that life is not all beer and skittles. Of course you can’t quite know him as I do. As to his earning anything on the Examiner or elsewhere, that cuts no figure — he’ll spend everything he can get his fingers on anyhow; but I feel that he ought to have the advantage of a struggle for existence where the grass is short and the soil stony.

  Well, I shall let him live down there somehow, and see what can be done with him. There’s a lot of good in him, and a lot of the other thing, naturally.

  I hope Hume has, or will, put you in authority in the Post and give you a decent salary. He seems quite enthusiastic about the Post and — about you.

  With sincere regards to Mrs. Partington and all the Partingtonettes, I am very truly yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, April 10, 1893.]

  MY DEAR PARTINGTON,

  If you are undertaking to teach my kid (which, unless it is entirely agreeable to you, you must not do) I hope you will regard him as a pupil whose tuition is to be paid for like any other pupil. And you should, I think, name the price. Will you kindly do so?

  Another thing. Leigh tells me you paid him for something he did for the Wave. That is not right. While you let him work with you, and under you, his work belongs to you — is a part of yours. I mean the work that he does in your shop for the Wave.

  I don’t wish to feel that you are bothering with him for nothing — will you not tell me your notion of what I should pay you?

  I fancy you’ll be on the Examiner pretty soon — if you wish.

  With best regards to your family I am sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, April 10, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  As I was writing to your father I was, of course, strongly impressed with a sense of you; for you are an intrusive kind of creature, coming into one’s consciousness in the most lawless way — Phyllis-like. (Phyllis is my “type and example” of lawlessness, albeit I’m devoted to her — a Phyllistine, as it were.)

  Leigh sends me a notice (before the event) of your concert. I hope it was successful. Was it?

  It rains or snows here all the time, and the mountain struggles in vain to put on its bravery of leaf and
flower. When this kind of thing stops I’m going to put in an application for you to come up and get your bad impressions of the place effaced. It is insupportable that my earthly paradise exist in your memory as a “bad eminence,” like Satan’s primacy.

  I’m sending you the New England Magazine — perhaps I have sent it already — and a Harper’s Weekly with a story by Mrs. * * *, who is a sort of pupil of mine. She used to do bad work — does now sometimes; but she will do great work by-and-by.

  I wish you had not got that notion that you cannot learn to write. You see I’d like you to do some art work that I can understand and enjoy. I wonder why it is that no note or combination of notes can be struck out of a piano that will touch me — give me an emotion of any kind. It is not wholly due to my ignorance and bad ear, for other instruments — the violin, organ, zither, guitar, etc., sometimes affect me profoundly. Come, read me the riddle if you know. What have I done that I should be inaccessible to your music? I know it is good; I can hear that it is, but not feel that it is. Therefore to me it is not.

  Now that, you will confess, is a woeful state—”most tolerable and not to be endured.” Will you not cultivate some art within the scope of my capacity? Do you think you could learn to walk on a wire (if it lay on the ground)? Can you not ride three horses at once if they are suitably dead? Or swallow swords? Really, you should have some way to entertain your uncle.

  True, you can talk, but you never get the chance; I always “have the floor.” Clearly you must learn to write, and I mean to get Miller to teach you how to be a poet.