Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  I have photographs of my brother’s shack in the redwoods and feel strongly drawn in that direction — since, as you fully infer, Carmel is barred. Probably, though, I shall continue in the complicated life of cities while I last.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  1909.

  [Washington, D. C., January 9, 1909.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  I’ve been reading your book — re-reading most of it—”every little while.” I don’t know that it is better than your first, but to say that it is as good is praise enough. You know what I like most in it, but there are some things that you don’t know I like. For an example, “Night in Heaven.” It Kipples a bit, but it is great. But I’m not going to bore you with a catalogue of titles. The book is all good. No, not (in my judgment) all, for it contains lines and words that I found objectionable in the manuscript, and time has not reconciled me to them. Your retention of them, shows, however, that you agree with me in thinking that you have passed your ‘prentice period and need no further criticism. So I welcome them.

  I take it that the cover design is Scheff’s — perhaps because it is so good, for the little cuss is clever that way.

  * * * * *

  I rather like your defence of Jack London — not that I think it valid, but because I like loyalty to a friend whom one does not believe to be bad. (The “thick-and-thin” loyalty never commended itself to me; it is too dog-like.) I fail, however, to catch the note of penitence in London’s narratives of his underlife, and my charge of literary stealing was not based on his primeval man book, “Before Adam.”

  As to * * *, as he is not more than a long-range or short-acquaintance friend of yours, I’ll say that I would not believe him under oath on his deathbed. * * * The truth is, none of these howlers knows the difference between a million and a thousand nor between truth and falsehood. I could give you instances of their lying about matters here at the capital that would make even your hair stand on end. It is not only that they are all liars — they are mere children; they don’t know anything and don’t care to, nor, for prosperity in their specialties, need to. Veracity would be a disqualification; if they confined themselves to facts they would not get a hearing. * * * is the nastiest futilitarian of the gang.

  It is not the purpose of these gentlemen that I find so very objectionable, but the foul means that they employ to accomplish it. I would be a good deal of a Socialist myself if they had not made the word (and the thing) stink.

  Don’t imagine that I’ll not “enter Carmel” if I come out there. I’ll visit you till you’re sick of me. But I’d not live there and be “identified” with it, as the newspapers would say. I’m warned by Hawthorne and Brook Farm.

  I’m still working — a little more leisurely — on my books. But I begin to feel the call of New York on the tympani of my blood globules. I must go there occasionally, or I should die of intellectual torpor. * * * “O Lord how long?” — this letter. O well, you need not give it the slightest attention; there’s nothing, I think, that requires a reply, nor merits one.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., March 6, 1909.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  * * * * *

  Did you see Markham’s review of the “Wine” in “The N. Y. American”? Pretty fair, but — if a metrical composition full of poetry is not a poem what is it? And I wonder what he calls Kubla Khan, which has a beginning but neither middle nor end. And how about The Faerie Queene for absence of “unity”? Guess I’ll ask him.

  Isn’t it funny what happens to critics who would mark out meters and bounds for the Muse — denying the name “poem,” for example, to a work because it is not like some other work, or like one that is in the minds of them?

  I hope you are prosperous and happy and that I shall sometimes hear from you.

  Howes writes me that the “Lone Hand” — Sydney — has been commending you.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., October 9, 1909.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  I return the poems with a few random comments and suggestions.

  I’m a little alarmed lest you take too seriously my preference of your rhyme to your blank — especially when I recall your “Music” and “The Spirit of Beauty.” Perhaps I should have said only that you are not so likely to write well in blank. (I think always of “Tasso to Leonora,” which I cannot learn to like.) Doubtless I have too great fondness for great lines — your great lines — and they occur less frequently in your blank verse than in your rhyme — most frequently in your quatrains, those of sonnets included. Don’t swear off blank — except as you do drink — but study it more. It’s “an hellish thing.”

  It looks as if I might go to California sooner than I had intended. My health has been wretched all summer. I need a sea voyage — one via Panama would be just the thing. So if the cool weather of autumn do not restore me I shall not await spring here. But I’m already somewhat better. If I had been at sea I should have escaped the Cook-Peary controversy. We talk nothing but arctic matters here — I enclose my contribution to its horrors.

  I’m getting many a good lambasting for my book of essays. Also a sop of honey now and then. It’s all the same to me; I don’t worry about what my contemporaries think of me. I made ‘em think of you — that’s glory enough for one. And the squirrels in the public parks think me the finest fellow in the world. They know what I have in every pocket. Critics don’t know that — nor nearly so much.

  Advice to a young author: Cultivate the good opinion of squirrels.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., November 1, 1909.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  European criticism of your bête noir, old Leopold, is entitled to attention; American (of him or any other king) is not. It looks as if the wretch may be guilty of indifference.

  In condemning as “revolutionary” the two-rhyme sestet, I think I could not have been altogether solemn, for (1) I’m something of a revolutionist myself regarding the sonnet, having frequently expressed the view that its accepted forms — even the number of lines — were purely arbitrary; (2) I find I’ve written several two-rhyme sestets myself, and (3), like yours, my ear has difficulty in catching the rhyme effect in a-b-c, a-b-c. The rhyme is delayed till the end of the fourth line — as it is in the quatrain (not of the sonnet) with unrhyming first and third lines — a form of which I think all my multitude of verse supplies no example. I confess, though, that I did not know that Petrarch had made so frequent use of the 2-rhyme sestet.

  I learn a little all the time; some of my old notions of poetry seem to me now erroneous, even absurd. So I may have been at one time a stickler for the “regular” three-rhymer. Even now it pleases my ear well enow if the three are not so arranged as to elude it. I’m sorry if I misled you. You’d better ‘fess up to your young friend, as I do to you — if I really was serious.

  * * * * *

  Of course I should be glad to see Dick, but don’t expect to. They never come, and it has long been my habit to ignore every “declaration of intention.”

  I’m greatly pleased to know that you too like those lines of Markham that you quote from the “Wharf of Dreams.” I’ve repeatedly told him that that sonnet was his greatest work, and those were its greatest lines. By the way, my young poet, Loveman, sends me a letter from Markham, asking for a poem or two for a book, “The Younger Choir,” that he (M.) is editing. Loveman will be delighted by your good opinion of “Pierrot” — which still another magazine has returned to me. Guess I’ll have to give it up.

  I’m sending you a booklet on loose locutions. It is vilely gotten up — had to be so to sell for twenty-five cents, the price that I favored. I just noted down these things as I found them in my reading, or remembered them, until I had four hundred. Then I took about fifty from other books, and boiled down the needful damnation. Maybe I have don
e too much boiling down — making the stuff “thick and slab.” If there is another edition I shall do a little bettering.

  I should like some of those mussels, and, please God, shall help you cull them next summer. But the abalone — as a Christian comestible he is a stranger to me and the tooth o’ me.

  I think you have had some correspondence with my friend Howes of Galveston. Well, here he is “in his habit as he lives.” Of the two figures in the picture Howes is the one on top.11 Good night.

  11 Howes was riding on a burro.

  A. B.

  1910.

  [Washington, D. C., January 29, 1910.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  Here are your fine verses — I have been too busy to write to you before. In truth, I’ve worked harder now for more than a year than I ever shall again — and the work will bring me nor gain nor glory. Well, I shall take a rest pretty soon, partly in California. I thank you for the picture card. I have succumbed to the post-card fashion myself.

  As to some points in your letter.

  I’ve no recollection of advising young authors to “leave all heart and sentiment out of their work.” If I did the context would probably show that it was because their time might better be given to perfect themselves in form, against the day when their hearts would be less wild and their sentiments truer. You know it has always been my belief that one cannot be trusted to feel until one has learned to think — and few youngsters have learned to do that. Was it not Dr. Holmes who advised a young writer to cut out every passage that he thought particularly good? He’d be sure to think the beautiful and sentimental passages the best, would he not? * * *

  If you mean to write really “vituperative” sonnets (why sonnets?) let me tell you one secret of success — name your victim and his offense. To do otherwise is to fire blank cartridges — to waste your words in air — to club a vacuum. At least your satire must be so personally applicable that there can be no mistake as to the victim’s identity. Otherwise he is no victim — just a spectator like all others. And that brings us to Watson. His caddishness consisted, not in satirizing a woman, which is legitimate, but, first, in doing so without sufficient reason, and, second, in saying orally (on the safe side of the Atlantic) what he apparently did not dare say in the verses. * * *

  I’m enclosing something that will tickle you I hope—”The Ballade of the Goodly Fere.” The author’s12 father, who is something in the Mint in Philadelphia, sent me several of his son’s poems that were not good; but at last came this — in manuscript, like the others. Before I could do anything with it — meanwhile wearing out the paper and the patience of my friends by reading it at them — the old man asked it back rather peremptorily. I reluctantly sent it, with a letter of high praise. The author had “placed” it in London, where it has made a heap of talk.

  12 Ezra Pound.

  It has plenty of faults besides its monotonous rhyme scheme; but tell me what you think of it.

  God willing, we shall eat Carmel mussels and abalones in May or June.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., March 7, 1910.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  My plan is to leave here before April first, pass a few days in New York and then sail for Colon. If I find the canal work on the Isthmus interesting I may skip a steamer from Panama to see it. I’ve no notion how long it will take to reach San Francisco, and know nothing of the steamers and their schedules on the Pacific side.

  I shall of course want to see Grizzly first — that is to say, he will naturally expect me to. But if you can pull him down to Carmel about the time of my arrival (I shall write you the date of my sailing from New York) I would gladly come there. Carlt, whom I can see at once on arriving, can tell me where he (Grizzly) is. * * *

  I don’t think you rightly value “The Goodly Fere.” Of course no ballad written to-day can be entirely good, for it must be an imitation; it is now an unnatural form, whereas it was once a natural one. We are no longer a primitive people, and a primitive people’s forms and methods are not ours. Nevertheless, this seems to me an admirable ballad, as it is given a modern to write ballads. And I think you overlook the best line:

  “The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue.”

  The poem is complete as I sent it, and I think it stops right where and as it should —

  “I ha’ seen him eat o’ the honey comb

  Sin’ they nailed him to the tree.”

  The current “Literary Digest” has some queer things about (and by) Pound, and “Current Literature” reprints the “Fere” with all the wrinkles ironed out of it — making a “capon priest” of it.

  Fo’ de Lawd’s sake! don’t apologise for not subscribing for my “Works.” If you did subscribe I should suspect that you were “no friend o’ mine” — it would remove you from that gang and put you in a class by yourself. Surely you can not think I care who buys or does not buy my books. The man who expects anything more than lip-service from his friends is a very young man. There are, for example, a half-dozen Californians (all loud admirers of Ambrose Bierce) editing magazines and newspapers here in the East. Every man Jack of them has turned me down. They will do everything for me but enable me to live. Friends be damned! — strangers are the chaps for me.

  * * * * *

  I’ve given away my beautiful sailing canoe and shall never again live a life on the ocean wave — unless you have boats at Carmel.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., Easter Sunday.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  Here’s a letter from Loveman, with a kindly reference to you — that’s why I send it.

  I’m to pull out of here next Wednesday, the 30th, but don’t know just when I shall sail from New York — apparently when there are no more dinners to eat in that town and no more friends to visit. May God in His infinite mercy lessen the number of both. I should get into your neck o’ woods early in May. Till then God be with you instead.

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  Easter Sunday.

  [Why couldn’t He stay put?]

  [Washington, D. C., March 29, 1910.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  I’m “all packed up,” even my pens; for to-morrow I go to New York — whence I shall write you before embarking.

  Neale seems pleased by your “permission to print,” as Congressmen say who can’t make a speech yet want one in the Record, for home consumption.

  Sincerely,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Guerneville, Cal., May 24, 1910.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  You will probably have learned of my arrival — this is my first leisure to apprise you.

  I took Carlt and Lora and came directly up here — where we all hope to see you before I see Carmel. Lora remains here for the week, perhaps longer, and Carlt is to come up again on Saturday. Of course you do not need an invitation to come whenever you feel like it.

  I had a pleasant enough voyage and have pretty nearly got the “slosh” of the sea out of my ears and its heave out of my bones.

  A bushel of letters awaits attention, besides a pair of lizards that I have undertaken to domesticate. So good morning.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [The Key Route Inn, Oakland, June 25, 1910.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  You’ll observe that I acted on your suggestion, and am “here.”

  Your little sisters are most gracious to me, despite my candid confession that I extorted your note of introduction by violence and intimidation.

  Baloo13 and his cubs went on to Guerneville the day of their return from Carmel. But I saw them.

  13 Albert Bierce.

  I’m deep in work, and shall be for a few weeks; then I shall be off to Carmel for a lungful of sea air and a bellyful of abalones and mussels.

  I suppose you’ll be going to the Midsummer Jinks. Fail not to stop over here — I don’t feel that I have really seen you yet.
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  With best regards to Carrie.

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [The Laguna Vista, Oakland, Sunday, July 24, 1910.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  Supposing you to have gone home, I write to send the poem. Of course it is a good poem. But I begin to want to hear your larger voice again. I want to see you standing tall on the heights — above the flower-belt and the bird-belt. I want to hear,

  “like Ocean on a western beach,

  The surge and thunder of the Odyssey,”

  as you Odyssate.

  I think I met that dog * * * to-day, and as it was a choice between kicking him and avoiding him I chose the more prudent course.

  I’ve not seen your little sisters — they seem to have tired of me. Why not? — I have tired of myself.

  Fail not to let me know when to expect you for the Guerneville trip. * * *

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [The Laguna Vista, October 20, 1910.]

  I go back to the Inn on Saturday.

  DEAR GEORGE,

  It is long since I read the Book of Job, but if I thought it better than your addition to it I should not sleep until I had read it again — and again. Such a superb Who’s Who in the Universe! Not a Homeric hero in the imminence of a personal encounter ever did so fine bragging. I hope you will let it into your next book, if only to show that the “inspired” scribes of the Old Testament are not immatchable by modern genius. You know the Jews regard them, not as prophets, in our sense, but merely as poets — and the Jews ought to know something of their own literature.

  I fear I shall not be able to go to Carmel while you’re a widow — I’ve tangled myself up with engagements again. Moreover, I’m just back from the St. Helena cemetery, and for a few days shall be too blue for companionship.