* * * * *
[Washington, February 21, 1907]
MY DEAR GEORGE,
If you desert Carmel I shall destroy my Jorgensen picture, build a bungalow in the Catskills and cut out California forever. (Those are the footprints of my damned canary, who will neither write himself nor let me write. Just now he is perched on my shoulder, awaiting the command to sing — then he will deafen me with a song without sense. O he’s a poet all right.)
I entirely approve your allegiance to Mammon. If I’d had brains enough to make a decision like that I could now, at 65, have the leisure to make a good book or two before I go to the waste-dump. * * * Get yourself a fat bank account — there’s no such friend as a bank account, and the greatest book is a check-book; “You may lay to that!” as one of Stevenson’s pirates puts it.
* * * * *
No, sir, your boss will not bring you East next June; or if he does you will not come to Washington. How do I know? I don’t know how I know, but concerning all (and they are many) who were to come from California to see me I have never once failed in my forecast of their coming or not coming. Even in the case of * * *, although I wrote to you, and to her, as if I expected her, I said to one of my friends: “She will not come.” I don’t think it’s a gift of divination — it just happens, somehow. Yours is not a very good example, for you have not said you were coming, “sure.”
So your colony of high-brows is re-establishing itself at the old stand — Piedmont. * * * But Piedmont — it must be in the heart of Oakland. I could no longer shoot rabbits in the gulch back of it and sleep under a tree to shoot more in the morning. Nor could I traverse that long ridge with various girls. I dare say there’s a boulevard running the length of it,
“A palace and a prison on each hand.”
If I could stop you from reading that volume of old “Argonauts” I’d do so, but I suppose an injunction would not “lie.” Yes, I was a slovenly writer in those days, though enough better than my neighbors to have attracted my own attention. My knowledge of English was imperfect “a whole lot.” Indeed, my intellectual status (whatever it may be, and God knows it’s enough to make me blush) was of slow growth — as was my moral. I mean, I had not literary sincerity.
Yes, I wrote of Swinburne the distasteful words that you quote. But they were not altogether untrue. He used to set my teeth on edge — could not stand still a minute, and kept you looking for the string that worked his legs and arms. And he had a weak face that gave you the memory of chinlessness. But I have long renounced the views that I once held about his poetry — held, or thought I held. I don’t remember, though, if it was as lately as ‘78 that I held them.
You write of Miss Dawson. Did she survive the ‘quake? And do you know about her? Not a word of her has reached me. Notwithstanding your imported nightingale (upon which I think you should be made to pay a stiff duty) your Ina Coolbrith poem is so good that I want to keep it if you have another copy. I find no amendable faults in it. * * *
The fellow that told you that I was an editor of “The Cosmopolitan” has an impediment in his veracity. I simply write for it, * * *, and the less of my stuff the editor uses the better I’m pleased.
* * * * *
O, you ask about the “Ursus-Aborn-Gorgias-Agrestis-Polyglot” stuff. It was written by James F. (“Jimmie”) Bowman — long dead. (See a pretty bad sonnet on page 94, “Shapes of Clay.”) My only part in the matter was to suggest the papers and discuss them with him over many mugs of beer.
* * * * *
By the way, Neale says he gets almost enough inquiries for my books (from San Francisco) to justify him in republishing them.
* * * * *
That’s all — and, as George Augustus Sala wrote of a chew of tobacco as the price of a certain lady’s favors, “God knows it’s enough!”
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[The Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C., April 23, 1907.]
DEAR GEORGE,
I have your letter of the 13th. The enclosed slip from the Pacific Monthly (thank you for it) is amusing. Yes, * * * is an insufferable pedant, but I don’t at all mind his pedantry. Any critic is welcome to whack me all he likes if he will append to his remarks (as * * * had the thoughtfulness to do) my definition of “Critic” from the “Word Book.”
Please don’t bother to write me when the spirit does not move you thereto. You and I don’t need to write to each other for any other reason than that we want to. As to coming East, abstain, O, abstain from promises, lest you resemble all my other friends out there, who promise always and never come. It would be delightful to see you here, but I know how those things arrange themselves without reference to our desires. We do as we must, not as we will.
I think that uncle of yours must be a mighty fine fellow. Be good to him and don’t kick at his service, even when you feel the chain. It beats poetry for nothing a year.
Did you get the “Shiloh” article? I sent it to you. I sent it also to Paul Elder & Co. (New York branch) for their book of “Western Classics,” and hope it will meet their need. They wanted something, and it seemed to me as good, with a little revision, as any of my stuff that I control. Do you think it would be wise to offer them for republication “In the Midst of Life”? It is now “out of print” and on my hands.
* * * * *
I’m glad of your commendation of my “Cosmopolitan” stuff. They don’t give me much of a “show” — the editor doesn’t love me personally as he should, and lets me do only enough to avert from himself the attention of Mr. Hearst and that gentleman’s interference with the mutual admiration game as played in the “Cosmopolitan” office. As I’m rather fond of light work I’m not shrieking.
* * * * *
You don’t speak of getting the book that I sent, “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter” — new edition. ‘Tisn’t as good as the old. * * *
I’m boating again. How I should like to put out my prow on Monterey Bay.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[The Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C., June 8, 1907.]
DEAR LORA,
Your letter, with the yerba buena and the spray of redwood, came like a breeze from the hills. And the photographs are most pleasing. I note that Sloot’s moustache is decently white at last, as becomes a fellow of his years. I dare say his hair is white too, but I can’t see under his hat. And I think he never removes it. That backyard of yours is a wonder, but I sadly miss the appropriate ash-heaps, tin cans, old packing-boxes, and so forth. And that palm in front of the house — gracious, how she’s grown! Well, it has been more than a day growing, and I’ve not watched it attentively.
I hope you’ll have a good time in Yosemite, but Sloots is an idiot not to go with you — nineteen days is as long as anybody would want to stay there.
I saw a little of Phyllis Partington in New York. She told me much of you and seems to be fond of you. That is very intelligent of her, don’t you think?
No, I shall not wait until I’m rich before visiting you. I’ve no intention of being rich, but do mean to visit you — some day. Probably when Grizzly has visited me. Love to you all.
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C., June 25, 1907.]
DEAR GEORGE,
* * * * *
So * * * showed you his article on me. He showed it to me also, and some of it amused me mightily, though I didn’t tell him so. That picture of me as a grouchy and disappointed old man occupying the entire cave of Adullam is particularly humorous, and so poetic that I would not for the world “cut it out.” * * * seems incapable (like a good many others) of estimating success in other terms than those of popularity. He gives a rather better clew to his own character than to mine. The old man is fairly well pleased with the way that he has played the game, and with his share of the stakes, thank’ee.
I note with satisfaction your satisfaction with my article on you and your poem. I’ll correct the quotation about the “tim
id sapphires” — don’t know how I happened to leave out the best part of it. But I left out the line about “harlot’s blood” because I didn’t (and don’t) think a magazine would “stand for it” if I called the editor’s attention to it. You don’t know what magazines are if you haven’t tested them. However, I’ll try it on Chamberlain if you like. And I’ll put in “twilight of the year” too.
* * * * *
It’s pleasing to know that you’ve “cut out” your clerical work if you can live without it. Now for some great poetry! Carmel has a fascination for me too — because of your letters. If I did not fear illness — a return of my old complaint — I’d set out for it at once. I’ve nothing to do that would prevent — about two day’s work a month. But I’d never set foot in San Francisco. Of all the Sodoms and Gomorrahs in our modern world it is the worst. There are not ten righteous (and courageous) men there. It needs another quake, another whiff of fire, and — more than all else — a steady tradewind of grapeshot. When * * * gets done blackguarding New York (as it deserves) and has shaken the dung of San Francisco from his feet I’m going to “sick him onto” that moral penal colony of the world. * * *
I’ve two “books” seeking existence in New York — the Howes book and some satires. Guess they are cocks that will not fight.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
I was sixty-five yesterday.
[Washington, D. C., July 11, 1907.]
DEAR GEORGE,
I’ve just finished reading proofs of my stuff about you and your poem. Chamberlain, as I apprised you, has it slated for September. But for that month also he has slated a longish spook story of mine, besides my regular stuff. Not seeing how he can run it all in one issue, I have asked him to run your poem (with my remarks) and hold the spook yarn till some other time. I hope he’ll do so, but if he doesn’t, don’t think it my fault. An editor never does as one wants him to. I inserted in my article another quotation or two, and restored some lines that I had cut out of the quotations to save space.
It’s grilling hot here — I envy you your Carmel.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[The Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C.]
DEAR GEORGE,
I guess several of your good letters are unanswered, as are many others of other correspondents. I’ve been gadding a good deal lately — to New York principally. When I want a royal good time I go to New York; and I get it.
* * * * *
As to Miller being “about the same age” as I, why, no. The rascal is long past seventy, although nine or ten years ago he wrote from Alaska that he was “in the middle fifties.” I’ve known him for nearly thirty years and he can’t fool me with his youthful airs and tales. May he live long and repent.
Thank you for taking the trouble to send Conan Doyle’s opinion of me. No, it doesn’t turn my head; I can show you dozens of “appreciations” from greater and more famous men. I return it to you corrected — as he really wrote it. Here it is:
“Praise from Sir Hugo is praise indeed.” In “Through the Magic Door,” an exceedingly able article on short stories that have interested him, Conan Doyle pays the following well-deserved tribute to Ambrose Bierce, whose wonderful short stories have so often been praised in these columns: “Talking of weird American stories, have you ever read any of the works of Ambrose Bierce? I have one of his books before me, ‘In the Midst of Life.’ This man (has)9 had a flavor quite his own, and (is)9 was a great artist. It is not cheerful reading, but it leaves its mark upon you, and that is the proof of good work.”
9 Crossed out by A. B.
Thank you also for the Jacobs story, which I will read. As a humorist he is no great thing.
I’ve not read your Bohemian play to a finish yet, * * *. By the way, I’ve always wondered why they did not “put on” Comus. Properly done it would be great woodland stuff. Read it with a view to that and see if I’m not right. And then persuade them to “stage it” next year.
I’m being awfully pressed to return to California. No San Francisco for me, but Carmel sounds good. For about how much could I get ground and build a bungalow — for one? That’s a pretty indefinite question; but then the will to go is a little hazy at present. It consists, as yet, only of the element of desire. * * *
The “Cosmopolitan,” with your poem, has not come to hand but is nearly due — I’m a little impatient — eager to see the particular kind of outrage Chamberlain’s artist has wrought upon it. He (C.) asked for your address the other day; so he will doubtless send you a check.
* * * * *
Now please go to work at “Lilith”; it’s bound to be great stuff, for you’ll have to imagine it all. I’m sorry that anybody ever invented Lilith; it makes her too much of an historical character.
* * * * *
“The other half of the Devil’s Dictionary” is in the fluid state — not even liquid. And so, doubtless, it will remain.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[The Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C., September 7, 1907.]
MY DEAR GEORGE,
I’m awfully glad that you don’t mind Chamberlain’s yellow nonsense in coupling Ella’s name with yours. But when you read her natural opinion of your work you’ll acquit her of complicity in the indignity. I’m sending a few things from Hearst’s newspapers — written by the slangers, dialecters and platitudinarians of the staff, and by some of the swine among the readers.
Note the deliberate and repeated lying of Brisbane in quoting me as saying the “Wine” is “the greatest poem ever written in America.” Note his dishonesty in confessing that he has commendatory letters, yet not publishing a single one of them. But the end is not yet — my inning is to come, in the magazine. Chamberlain (who professes an enthusiastic admiration of the poem) promises me a free hand in replying to these ignorant asses. If he does not give it to me I quit. I’ve writ a paragraph or two for the November number (too late now for the October) by way of warning them what they’ll get when December comes. So you see you must patiently endure the befouling till then.
* * * * *
Did you notice in the last line of the “Wine” that I restored the word “smile” from your earlier draft of the verses? In one of your later (I don’t remember if in the last) you had it “sigh.” That was wrong; “smile” seems to me infinitely better as a definition of the poet’s attitude toward his dreams. So, considering that I had a choice, I chose it. Hope you approve.
I am serious in wishing a place in Carmel as a port of refuge from the storms of age. I don’t know that I shall ever live there, but should like to feel that I can if I want to. Next summer I hope to go out there and spy out the land, and if I then “have the price” (without sacrificing any of my favorite stocks) I shall buy. I don’t care for the grub question — should like to try the simple life, for I have already two gouty finger points as a result of the other kind of life. (Of course if they all get that way I shan’t mind, for I love uniformity.) Probably if I attempted to live in Carmel I should have asthma again, from which I have long been free.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C., October 9, 1907.]
MY DEAR MORROW,
Whether you “prosper” or not I’m glad you write instead of teaching. I have done a bit of teaching myself, but as the tuition was gratuitous I could pick my pupils; so it was a labor of love. I’m pretty well satisfied with the results.
No, I’m not “toiling” much now. I’ve written all I care to, and having a pretty easy berth (writing for The Cosmopolitan only, and having no connection with Mr. Hearst’s newspapers) am content.
I have observed your story in Success, but as I never never (sic) read serials shall await its publication in covers before making a meal of it.
You seem to be living at the old place in Vallejo Street, so I judge that it was spared by the fire. I had some pretty good tim
es in that house, not only with you and Mrs. Morrow (to whom my love, please) but with the dear Hogan girls. Poor Flodie! she is nearly a sole survivor now. I wonder if she ever thinks of us.
I hear from California frequently through a little group of interesting folk who foregather at Carmel — whither I shall perhaps stray some day and there leave my bones. Meantime, I am fairly happy here.
I wish you would add yourself to the Carmel crowd. You would be a congenial member of the gang and would find them worth while. You must know George Sterling: he is the high panjandrum and a gorgeously good fellow. Go get thee a bungalow at Carmel, which is indubitably the charmingest place in the State. As to San Francisco, with its labor-union government, its thieves and other impossibilities, I could not be drawn into it by a team of behemoths. But California — ah, I dare not permit myself to remember it. Yet this Eastern country is not without charm. And my health is good here, as it never was there. Nothing ails me but age, which brings its own cure.
God keep thee! — go and live at Carmel.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[The Army and Navy Club, Washington, D. C., October 29, 1907.]
JAMES D. BLAKE, ESQ.,
DEAR SIR:
It is a matter of no great importance to me, but the republication of the foolish books that you mention would not be agreeable to me. They have no kind of merit or interest. One of them, “The Fiend’s Delight,” was published against my protest; the utmost concession that the compiler and publisher (the late John Camden Hatten, London) would make was to let me edit his collection of my stuff and write a preface. You would pretty surely lose money on any of them.
If you care to republish anything of mine you would, I think, do better with “Black Beetles in Amber,” or “Shapes of Clay.” The former sold well, and the latter would, I think, have done equally well if the earthquake-and-fire had not destroyed it, including the plates. Nearly all of both books were sold in San Francisco, and the sold, as well as the unsold, copies — I mean the unsold copies of the latter — perished in the fire. There is much inquiry for them (mainly from those who lost them) and I am told that they bring fancy prices. You probably know about that better than I.
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 320