Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  I hope you will write occasionally to me, — letter-writing is an art that you do excel in — as I in “appreciation” of your excellence in it.

  Do you see my boy? I hope he is good, and diligent in his work.

  * * * * *

  You must write to me or I shall withdraw my avuncular relation to you.

  With good will to all your people — particularly Phyllis — I am sincerely your friend,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, Calif., April 16, 1893.]

  MY DEAR PARTINGTON,

  I think you wrong. On your own principle, laid down in your letter, that “every man has a right to the full value of his labor” — pardon me, good Englishman, I meant “laboUr” — you have a right to your wage for the labour of teaching Leigh. And what work would he get to do but for you?

  I can’t hold you and inject shekels into your pocket, but if the voice of remonstrance has authority to enter at your ear without a ticket I pray you to show it hospitality.

  Leigh doubtless likes to see his work in print, but I hope you will not let him put anything out until it is as good as he can make it — nor then if it is not good enough. And that whether he signs it or not. I have talked to him about the relation of conscience to lab-work, but I don’t know if my talk all came out at the other ear.

  O — that bad joke o’ mine. Where do you and Richard expect to go when death do you part? You were neither of you present that night on the dam, nor did I know either of you. Blanche, thank God, retains the old-time reverence for truth: it was to her that I said it. Richard evidently dreamed it, and you — you’ve been believing that confounded Wave! Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, April 18, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  I take a few moments from work to write you in order (mainly) to say that your letter of March 31st did not go astray, as you seem to fear — though why you should care if it did I can’t conjecture. The loss to me — that is probably what would touch your compassionate heart.

  So you will try to write. That is a good girl. I’m almost sure you can — not, of course, all at once, but by-and-by. And if not, what matter? You are not of the sort, I am sure, who would go on despite everything, determined to succeed by dint of determining to succeed.

  * * * * *

  We are blessed with the most amiable of all conceivable weathers up here, and the wild flowers are putting up their heads everywhere to look for you. Lying in their graves last autumn, they overheard (underheard) your promise to come in the spring, and it has stimulated and cheered them to a vigorous growth.

  I’m sending you some more papers. Don’t think yourself obliged to read all the stuff I send you — I don’t read it.

  Condole with me — I have just lost another publisher — by failure. Schulte, of Chicago, publisher of “The Monk” etc., has “gone under,” I hear. Danziger and I have not had a cent from him. I put out three books in a year, and lo! each one brings down a publisher’s gray hair in sorrow to the grave! for Langton, of “Black Beetles,” came to grief — that is how Danziger got involved. “O that mine enemy would publish one of my books!”

  I am glad to hear of your success at your concert. If I could have reached you you should have had the biggest basket of pretty vegetables that was ever handed over the footlights. I’m sure you merited it all — what do you not merit?

  Your father gives me good accounts of my boy. He must be doing well, I think, by the way he neglects all my commissions.

  Enclosed you will find my contribution to the Partington art gallery, with an autograph letter from the artist. You can hang them in any light you please and show them to Richard. He will doubtless be pleased to note how the latent genius of his boss has burst into bloom.

  I have been wading in the creek this afternoon for pure love of it; the gravel looked so clean under the water. I was for the moment at least ten years younger than your father. To whom, and to all the rest of your people, my sincere regards, Your uncle,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Angwin, Cala., April 26, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  * * * * *

  I accept your sympathy for my misfortunes in publishing. It serves me right (I don’t mean the sympathy does) for publishing. I should have known that if a publisher cannot beat an author otherwise, or is too honest to do so, he will do it by failing. Once in London a publisher gave me a check dated two days ahead, and then (the only thing he could do to make the check worthless) — ate a pork pie and died. That was the late John Camden Hotten, to whose business and virtues my present London publishers, Chatto and Windus, have succeeded. They have not failed, and they refuse pork pie, but they deliberately altered the title of my book.

  All this for your encouragement in “learning to write.” Writing books is a noble profession; it has not a shade of selfishness in it — nothing worse than conceit.

  O yes, you shall have your big basket of flowers if ever I catch you playing in public. I wish I could give you the carnations, lilies-of-the-valley, violets, and first-of-the-season sweet peas now on my table. They came from down near you — which fact they are trying triumphantly and as hard as they can to relate in fragrance.

  I trust your mother is well of her cold — that you are all well and happy, and that Phyllis will not forget me. And may the good Lord bless you regularly every hour of every day for your merit, and every minute of every hour as a special and particular favor to Your uncle,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Berkeley, October 2, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  I accept with pleasure your evidence that the Piano is not as black as I have painted, albeit the logical inference is that I’m pretty black myself. Indubitably I’m “in outer darkness,” and can only say to you: “Lead, kindly light.” Thank you for the funny article on the luxury question — from the funny source. But you really must not expect me to answer it, nor show you wherein it is “wrong.” I cannot discern the expediency of you having any “views” at all in those matters — even correct ones. If I could have my way you should think of more profitable things than the (conceded) “wrongness” of a world which is the habitat of a wrongheaded and wronghearted race of irreclaimable savages. * * * When woman “broadens her sympathies” they become annular. Don’t.

  Cosgrave came over yesterday for a “stroll,” but as he had a dinner engagement to keep before going home, he was in gorgeous gear. So I kindly hoisted him atop of Grizzly Peak and sent him back across the Bay in a condition impossible to describe, save by the aid of a wet dishclout for illustration.

  Please ask your father when and where he wants me to sit for the portrait. If that picture is not sold, and ever comes into my possession, I shall propose to swap it for yours. I have always wanted to lay thievish hands on that, and would even like to come by it honestly. But what under the sun would I do with either that or mine? Fancy me packing large paintings about to country hotels and places of last resort!

  Leigh is living with me now. Poor chap, the death of his aunt has made him an orphan. I feel a profound compassion for any one whom an untoward fate compels to live with me. However, such a one is sure to be a good deal alone, which is a mitigation.

  With good wishes for all your people, I am sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Berkeley, December 27, 1893.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  I’m sending you (by way of pretext for writing you) a magazine that I asked Richard to take to you last evening, but which he forgot. There’s an illustrated article on gargoyles and the like, which will interest you. Some of the creatures are delicious — more so than I had the sense to perceive when I saw them alive on Notre Dame.

  I want to thank you too for the beautiful muffler before I take to my willow chair, happy in the prospect of death. For at this hour, 10:35 p. m., I “have on” a very promising case of asthma. If I come out of it decently alive in a week or so I shall go over to your house and s
ee the finished portrait if it is “still there,” like the flag in our national anthem.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  1894.

  [Oakland, July 31, 1894.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  If you are not utterly devoured by mosquitoes perhaps you’ll go to the postoffice and get this. In that hope I write, not without a strong sense of the existence of the clerks in the Dead Letter Office at Washington.

  I hope you are (despite the mosquitoes) having “heaps” of rest and happiness. As to me, I have only just recovered sufficiently to be out, and “improved the occasion” by going to San Francisco yesterday and returning on the 11:15 boat. I saw Richard, and he seemed quite solemn at the thought of the dispersal of his family to the four winds.

  I have a joyous letter from Leigh dated “on the road,” nearing Yosemite. He has been passing through the storied land of Bret Harte, and is permeated with a sense of its beauty and romance. When shall you return? May I hope, then, to see you?

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  P.S. Here are things that I cut out for memoranda. On second thought I know all that; so send them to you for the betterment of your mind and heart.

  B.

  [San Jose, October 17, 1894.]

  MY DEAR BLANCHE,

  Your kindly note was among a number which I put into my pocket at the postoffice and forgot until last evening when I returned from Oakland. (I dared remain up there only a few hours, and the visit did me no good.)

  Of course I should have known that your good heart would prompt the wish to hear from your patient, but I fear I was a trifle misanthropic all last week, and indisposed to communicate with my species.

  I came here on Monday of last week, and the change has done me good. I have no asthma and am slowly getting back my strength.

  Leigh and Ina Peterson passed Sunday with me, and Leigh recounted his adventures in the mountains. I had been greatly worried about him; it seems there was abundant reason. The next time he comes I wish he would bring you. It is lovely down here. Perhaps you and Katie can come some time, and I’ll drive you all over the valley — if you care to drive.

  If I continue well I shall remain here or hereabout; if not I don’t know where I shall go. Probably into the Santa Cruz mountains or to Gilroy. If I could have my way I’d live at Piedmont.

  Do you know I lost Pin the Reptile? I brought him along in my bicycle bag (I came the latter half of the way bike-back) and the ungrateful scoundrel wormed himself out and took to the weeds just before we got to San Jose. So I’ve nothing to lavish my second-childhoodish affection upon — nothing but just myself.

  My permanent address is Oakland, as usual, but you may address me here at San Jose if you will be so good as to address me anywhere. Please do, and tell me of your triumphs and trials at the Conservatory of Music. I do fervently hope it may prove a means of prosperity to you, for, behold, you are The Only Girl in the World Who Merits Prosperity!

  Please give my friendly regards to your people; and so — Heaven be good to you.

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [San Jose, October 28, 1894.]

  O, BEST OF POETS,

  How have you the heart to point out what you deem an imperfection in those lines. Upon my soul, I swear they are faultless, and “moonlight” is henceforth and forever a rhyme to “delight.” Also, likewise, moreover and furthermore, a —— is henceforth —— ; and —— are forever —— ; and to —— shall be —— ; and so forth. You have established new canons of literary criticism — more liberal ones — and death to the wretch who does not accept them! Ah, I always knew you were a revolutionist.

  Yes, I am in better health, worse luck! For I miss the beef-teaing expeditions more than you can by trying.

  By the way, if you again encounter your fellow practitioner, Mrs. Hirshberg, please tell her what has become of her patient, and that I remember her gratefully.

  It is not uninteresting to me to hear of your progress in your art, albeit I am debarred from entrance into the temple where it is worshiped. After all, art finds its best usefulness in its reaction upon the character; and in that work I can trace your proficiency in the art that you love. As you become a better artist you grow a nicer girl, and if your music does not cause my tympana to move themselves aright, yet the niceness is not without its effect upon the soul o’ me. So I’m not so very inert a clod, after all.

  No, Leigh has not infected me with the exploring fad. I exhausted my capacity in that way years before I had the advantage of his acquaintance and the contagion of his example. But I don’t like to think of that miserable mountain sitting there and grinning in the consciousness of having beaten the Bierce family.

  So — apropos of my brother — I am “odd” after a certain fashion! My child, that is blasphemy. You grow hardier every day of your life, and you’ll end as a full colonel yet, and challenge Man to mortal combat in true Stetsonian style. Know thy place, thou atom!

  Speaking of colonels reminds me that one of the most eminent of the group had the assurance to write me, asking for an “audience” to consult about a benefit that she — she! — is getting up for my friend Miss * * *, a glorious writer and eccentric old maid whom you do not know. * * * evidently wants more notoriety and proposes to shine by Miss * * * light. I was compelled to lower the temperature of the situation with a letter curtly courteous. Not even to assist Miss * * * shall my name be mixed up with those of that gang. But of course all that does not amuse you.

  I wish I could have a chat with you. I speak to nobody but my chambermaid and the waiter at my restaurant. By the time I see you I shall have lost the art of speech altogether and shall communicate with you by the sign language.

  God be good to you and move you to write to me sometimes.

  Sincerely your friend,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [First part of this letter missing.]

  * * * * *

  You may, I think, expect my assistance in choosing between (or among) your suitors next month, early. I propose to try living in Oakland again for a short time beginning about then. But I shall have much to do the first few days — possibly in settling my earthly affairs for it is my determination to be hanged for killing all those suitors. That seems to me the simplest way of disembarrassing you. As to me — it is the “line of least resistance” — unless they fight.

  * * * * *

  So you have been ill. You must not be ill, my child — it disturbs my Marcus Aurelian tranquillity, and is most selfishly inconsiderate of you.

  Mourn with me: the golden leaves of my poplars are now underwheel. I sigh for the perennial eucalyptus leaf of Piedmont.

  I hope you are all well. Sincerely your friend,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [San Jose, November 20, 1894.]

  Since writing you yesterday, dear Blanche, I have observed that the benefit to * * * is not abandoned — it is to occur in the evening of the 26th, at Golden Gate Hall, San Francisco. I recall your kind offer to act for me in any way that I might wish to assist Miss * * *. Now, I will not have my name connected with anything that the * * * woman and her sister-in-evidence may do for their own glorification, but I enclose a Wells, Fargo & Co. money order for all the money I can presently afford — wherewith you may do as you will; buy tickets, or hand it to the treasurer in your own name. I know Miss * * * must be awfully needy to accept a benefit — you have no idea how sensitive and suspicious and difficult she is. She is almost impossible. But there are countless exactions on my lean purse, and I must do the rest with my pen. So — I thank you.

  Sincerely your friend,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  1901.

  [18 Iowa Circle, Washington, D. C., January 1, 1901.]

  DEAR STERLING,

  This is just a hasty note to acknowledge receipt of your letter and the poems. I hope to reach those pretty soon and give them the attention which I am sure they will prove to merit — which I cannot do
now. By the way, I wonder why most of you youngsters so persistently tackle the sonnet. For the same reason, I suppose, that a fellow always wants to make his first appearance on the stage in the rôle of “Hamlet.” It is just the holy cheek of you.

  Yes, Leigh prospers fairly well, and I — well, I don’t know if it is prosperity; it is a pretty good time.

  I suppose I shall have to write to that old scoundrel Grizzly,1 to give him my new address, though I supposed he had it; and the old one would do, anyhow. Now that his cub has returned he probably doesn’t care for the other plantigrades of his kind.

  1 Albert Bierce.

  Thank you for telling me so much about some of our companions and companionesses of the long ago. I fear that not all my heart was in my baggage when I came over here. There’s a bit of it, for example, out there by that little lake in the hills.

  So I may have a photograph of one of your pretty sisters. Why, of course I want it — I want the entire five of them; their pictures, I mean. If you had been a nice fellow you would have let me know them long ago. And how about that other pretty girl, your infinitely better half? You might sneak into the envelope a little portrait of her, lest I forget, lest I forget. But I’ve not yet forgotten.

  The new century’s best blessings to the both o’ you.

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  P.S. — In your studies of poetry have you dipped into Stedman’s new “American Anthology”? It is the most notable collection of American verse that has been made — on the whole, a book worth having. In saying so I rather pride myself on my magnanimity; for of course I don’t think he has done as well by me as he might have done. That, I suppose, is what every one thinks who happens to be alive to think it. So I try to be in the fashion.

  A. B.

  [18 Iowa Circle, Washington, D. C., January 19, 1901.]

  MY DEAR STERLING,

  I’ve been a long while getting to your verses, but there were many reasons — including a broken rib. They are pretty good verses, with here and there very good lines. I’d a strong temptation to steal one or two for my “Passing Show,” but I knew what an avalanche of verses it would bring down upon me from other poets — as every mention of a new book loads my mail with new books for a month.