Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  CHAPTER XII. THE MASTER

  SHORTLY after the death of Day, Bierce went to live at the Sunol Glen Hotel at Sunol Glen, California, managed by Mr and Mrs. H. R. Crane. Like the proprietors of the other small country hotels in which Bierce lived, they were greatly honored by the presence of such a distinguished guest. Indeed, he was quite an attraction, for no sooner was he established than the usual flock of sycophants, admirers, pupils and friends began to haunt the hotel.

  His attacks of asthma were very acute at this time. Ina Peterson, with her brother, was visiting Mr and Mrs. Crane, during a vacation. She saw a great deal of Bierce one summer and has written me that “on more than one occasion we sat with him all night administering chloroform to him to assuage the terrible agony he suffered in his attacks of asthma. He often would say between his gasps, ‘Do you think I should stand this?’ And then for days would suffer from the effects of the chloroform.” She recalls, too, that Bierce was sick and ill for weeks after the death of his son and that he remarked to her one day: “I am just beginning to forget for a moment, and then the memory rushes back worse than ever!”

  But his work in “Prattle” reflected none of this despondency. In fact, his journalism was at its best from 1887 to 1890. It had more point and force and cleverness. It seems that Bierce had offended one H. Prescott Belknap, a young Naval officer, and that this gentleman had issued a challenge to him in The Argonaut. It was the beginning of an amusing series of notes in “Prattle.”

  “A chivalrous patriotette which signs its name variously as ‘H. Prescott Belknap’ and ‘Prescott Belknap’ complains in The Argonaut that I will not join it, a minor, in committing a felony on the ‘field of honor.’ The Belknaping justified the disappointment by quoting in solemn faith a long forgotten Hibernicism of mine inviting challenges from all persons conscientiously opposed to dueling! When setting that unbaited hook I could hardly have hoped that it would take a sucker — albeit a minnow — so long afterward. Of course the poor creature must not expect to cut a very heroic figure when lifted into its coveted notoriety with a thing like that in its jaw. Ever obliging and willing to assist struggling genius in ‘taking the heart’ of fame, I hereby cheerfully attest the existence of something calling itself Prescott Belknap or H. Prescott Belknap. I admit that, although in law an enfant, it is thought to have attained the age of puberty, and that it is ferocious, a feeding bottle of gore exciting it like the dickens. But whether it is a boy or girl, I am not informed.”

  But more was yet in store and the following note soon appeared, as Belknap kept demanding satisfaction:

  “I am in receipt of another ferocious communication from Mr. Prescott Belknap, who, admitting that he is a minor, protests that he is a Man. His letter is addressed to Sunol, where I live, and informs me that the writer is walking the streets of San Francisco, where I do not live, armed with a horsewhip for me. How he is legged for himself he does not see fit to inform me. Mr. Belknap threatens that unless I come up to be horsewhipped he will tell the public of my disobliging disposition. I shall have to give him the trouble of doing so, for I really do not wish to be horsewhipped if I have to pay the railway fare to enjoy that blessing. The expense of the performance ought, I think, to be assumed by the chief performer. I am still persuaded that Mr. Belknap is a girl.”

  While he was at Sunol he received one day, not a challenge to a duel, but a request to look over the manuscript of a young author. He consented and found that the manuscript showed considerable merit. He returned it with his suggestions and corrections. Further correspondence followed and then, one day, he received a note from the young authoress asking if she might come to Sunol to see him. It was rather an unusual performance, but Mrs. Atherton never made any compromises with contemporary opinion. Her first meeting with Mr. Bierce was rather disappointing. He was recuperating from a bad attack of asthma and was in an ill humor. To all her fine compliments and tributes to his “greatness,” he replied, rather savagely, “No, I’m not a great man. No one is better fitted to judge of greatness in men than I am, and I know that I am not great. I’m a journalist, past middle-age, without ambition, and have written nothing that measures up to my ideals.” He told her that it had been a serious mistake for him to return from London, and that he would never have done so but for his wife. Mrs. Atherton and Bierce corresponded for many years, and he had a definite influence on her early work. He became, however, sharply critical of her later novels.

  During these years when he was living at Sunol, 1888-1890, Bierce would make occasional trips to San Francisco and Oakland. He was interested in the fate of a little magazine, The Wave, that published some good things, including several of his own stories. It was edited by Hugh Hume. Bierce would come to San Francisco nearly every week-end and Friday afternoon would find him in Mr. Hume’s office. The time was “devoted to a talk and a walk up Market Street as far as the Baldwin Hotel. Bierce was the mildest and gentlest gentleman I have ever met; there is no writer I have ever known whose pen and tongue delivered such wholly dissimilar thoughts and views. In his conversational discussion of people and events, he was kind, considerate and friendly; it may have been that because his Friday afternoons were play time that he did not permit any of the black beetles to intrude themselves on our holidays. Contrary to the general belief, Bierce was not an unknown figure on the streets of San Francisco. In our rambles from my office on Bush and Kearney to the Baldwin Hotel, and in the many places of resort that we visited, he was well known, and was usually saluted with the utmost respect and regard. He was a flaming figure, and even in San Francisco he was conspicuous and noted.” At the barroom in the Baldwin Hotel, which was journey’s end for them, they would finish out the afternoon in the manner most congenial to literary gentlemen. Mr. Hume noted, and others made the same observation, that drinking seemed to mellow Bierce, and, strangely enough, that it helped his asthma and seemed to give him momentary relief.

  Bierce’s fame and influence on the coast reached a high water mark during these years. Quite a group of young writers gathered about him and his influence is reflected in such interesting magazines as The Wave. The number of manuscripts that he read and corrected is simply incalculable. On several occasions I have attempted to make a comprehensive list of his “pupils,” but have never succeeded, particularly as a definition of “pupil” that would define the degree and extent of his influence over all the young writers who sought his assistance, cannot be framed. Such writers as George Sterling and Herman Scheffauer boasted that Bierce was their “Master.” Others deny that he helped them. With many, notably with Mrs. Atherton, his influence never amounted to more than general and casual advice. Moreover, his influence was not restricted to creative work, as he had a marked and decisive influence on many young journalists. Naturally the people that he helped spoke of him to others and wrote blurbs about his books, augmenting his already considerable fame. But, as one might have expected, the praise of these pupils was uncritical and excessively enthusiastic. It came, in time, to be a source of considerable confusion.

  To appreciate fully Bierce’s eminence on the coast, it must be remembered that in the eighties and nineties, San Francisco was the only western city that made a pretense of culture. Between Chicago and San Francisco there was a dreary wasteland. The position of San Francisco was thus rather isolated and self-contained. It was a complete world in itself. It became self-centered and a survival of the old reckless spirit of the early days served to make it rather contemptuous of the rest of America. It fostered its own groups and its own magazines; devoted considerable attention to local artists and writers; and turned a cold shoulder on the rest of America. Under such conditions, Bierce naturally gravitated into a position, if not of active leadership, at least of proud example. He was the most interesting and fascinating literary man in the West and young writers were irresistibly drawn under his wing. He rather liked the role of “Master,” but was not the despot that legend has made him. It is necessary to remember the positi
on of San Francisco in order to appreciate the extent of Bierce’s influence, and conversely, in order to understand his slightly pontifical attitude, one must keep in mind that in San Francisco “Ambrose Bierce” was a name that quickly became a legend. When he went east in later years, Bierce struck at random. There was no direct reaction to his satire; he floundered in vacuity. In San Francisco he aimed directly and personally at the malefactor and had the satisfaction of watching the arrow pierce the target. His aim was unerring and his courage superb. But, in later years, when he attempted to generalize his prejudices, he was not effective.

  On his occasional visits to Oakland, Bierce would sometimes stay with his son Leigh, who had rooms in the old Blake Block with Roosevelt Johnson and George Sterling. His residence would alternate between Sunol and Angwins and Oakland. While temporarily a guest of his brother Albert, at the latter’s camp on the shore of Lake Temescal, he met an interesting group: George Sterling, the Partington family, and quite a host of others who foregathered in the woods for a good time.

  Sterling came to California in 1890; two years later he met Bierce. In the East he had lived at Sag Harbor and had been a roguish youngster, his fun-making activities ably seconded and championed by his friend, Roosevelt Johnson. The two of them put a pirate’s flag on the top of a church steeple one night. When Bierce was told of this escapade, he was delighted. He made a trip to Sag Harbor after he went east, and sent a picture post card to both young men on which he had drawn a pirate’s flag waving in the breeze and had labeled it: “Roosevelt Johnson’s and George Sterling’s flag.” Johnson and Sterling were great friends, and after they came to California, would visit such celebrities as Joaquin Miller and Bierce, although Johnson did not meet Bierce until later. Sterling wrote of his first meeting with Bierce as follows:

  “I am not likely to forget his first night among us. A tent being, for his ailment, insufficiently ventilated, he decided to sleep by the campfire, and I, carried away by my youthful hero-worship, must partially gratify it by occupying the side of the fire opposite to him. I had a comfortable cot in my tent, and was unaccustomed at the time to sleeping on the ground, the consequence being that I awoke at least every half-hour. But awake as often as I might, always I found Bierce lying on his back in the dim light of the embers, his gaze fixed on the stars of the zenith. I shall not forget the gaze of those eyes, the most piercingly blue, under yellow shaggy brows, that I have ever seen.”

  In order to appreciate the influence that Bierce exercised on Sterling, one should really have known Sterling. There was unquestionably a neurotic strain in his life. His father, a physician, had been an early convert to Catholicism, and had been, like both his sons, a heavy drinker. The other son, James, became a priest. He, too, was quite a drinker and died shortly after he reached maturity. George was always excitable, nervous, and extremely impulsive. He was given to strange whims and fancies and was nothing if not capricious. He had attended St. Charles College, at Ellicott City, Maryland, before coming to California. There he had the good fortune to study under Father John Bannister Tabb, but, in 1890, he was scarcely lettered. His lack of a formal education, coupled with his immaturity and his rather weak nature, brought him inevitably under the influence of Bierce. He adopted Robinson Jeffers with just the same enthusiasm years later.

  Many of Sterling’s friends have bemoaned the influence of Bierce on his life. Mr. James Rorty, for example, writes that Bierce was “the literary Leviathan of the Pacific Coast,” and that he was a “cavalry captain in the Civil War.” To this generous show of misinformation is added the statement that Bierce was a miserable satirist, an impossible story-teller, and a wretch personally. The first statement is, of course, a misquotation of a comparison used by Vincent Starrett, but where Mr. Rorty discovered the cavalry captaincy must, perforce, remain a mystery. It is obvious, of course, that some one told Mr. Rorty that Bierce was thus and so, and therefore, the matter is beyond dispute. He also makes the statement that early in life Sterling “discovered socialism, which was excellent. Simultaneously, however, he was discovered by Ambrose Bierce, which was almost fatal.” This is almost as amusing as it is absurd. It is extremely doubtful if Sterling knew what an iambic was until he met Bierce. Moreover, Bierce did not “discover” Sterling. Sterling sought him out and sat in abject worship at his feet. Just what relation socialism may have with poetry is, also, a matter which must remain a mystery. To be just to both Sterling and Bierce, one must read not only the Bierce letters to Sterling, which have been published by the Book Club of California, but Sterling’s letters to Bierce, which have not been published. From an examination of the entire correspondence, it is quite apparent that Bierce did not force themes upon Sterling; he did not attempt to warp the mind of the poet to fit the bias of the satirist. Nor was Bierce responsible for the rhetorical quality of Sterling’s verse. Surely there was no one in the west who could have advised Sterling as soundly as Bierce did. Furthermore, George Sterling knew this quite well, and never regretted his association with Bierce. Has Mr. Rorty forgotten that Bierce was one of the first individuals in this country to praise the poetry of Ezra Pound?

  It is difficult to imagine a Master, if one must have a “Master,” more patient, interested, and kindly than Bierce. Of course he warned his pupil against allowing his heart to rule his head; and, of a certainty, he pointed out the danger of permitting his muse to become a ballyhoo for every lost cause and pathetic ideal. But contrasted with the other great influence in Sterling’s life, that of Jack London, Bierce’s influence must be conceded the more fortunate. Bierce advised his “pupil” to study hard; to work incessantly; to devote his life to his art; and to be independent and self-reliant. It seems to me that the strongest and finest work Sterling did was that under the direct influence of Bierce, and that his weakest verse may be attributed to his association with certain well-meaning but ignorant friends. Surely, if Sterling had heeded Bierce’s advice, he would never have published “The Binding of the Beast,” that most unfortunate volume of hysterical, frenzied, war-mad poetry. If Sterling had remembered Bierce’s definition of “Bohemia”—”A taproom of a wayside inn on the road from Bœotia to Philistia” — he might have spent less time enacting the role of poet in restaurants and cafes. The great criticism of Sterling’s verse was that of Lionel Josephare, who said: “George Sterling’s poetry is a representation of poetic values.” This criticism is unjust but it does indicate the real weakness of Sterling’s verse, for which Bierce was not responsible. Bierce actually instructed Sterling in sentence structure, the selection of words, simple matters of versification. Sterling submitted the manuscript of one poem to Bierce and accepted every suggestion made by Bierce, some twenty-one or two changes in all. Sterling was proud to say, as he did, “I write for an audience of one.” Personally the most lovable and generous of men, Sterling would have been the first to resent such criticism as that by Mr. Rorty.

  And, great as Bierce’s influence was with Sterling, he was perhaps even a more important figure in the life of Herman Scheffauer. These two young poets worshiped their beloved “Titan.” And he was immensely fond of them, overlooking many foibles that another might not have tolerated. Later he became disgusted with Scheffauer for his insufferable conceit and he became annoyed with Sterling’s irresponsible conduct. Perhaps he should have been more tolerant; but, reading his correspondence in the light of the circumstances, leads one to the conclusion that he was justified in breaking with them both. To have Scheffauer write, as he did, “Every distinction I have achieved has been through hard work, and purely by my own efforts,” was enough to annoy even a more tolerant person than Bierce. Why, he had taught the fellow to spell! He had sent his verses about to the magazines, he had lent him money, introduced him to interesting people, corrected his work, and praised his verse in the most flattering terms. It was through Mr. Bierce’s efforts that The Examiner published the first of Scheffauer’s work. The same is true with Sterling. The patience with which Bierce sent �
�A Wine of Wizardry” from magazine to magazine, facing sneers, intolerable condescension, and rebuffs, is to appreciate the value of his friendship. Sterling, let it be said to his credit, was never ungrateful nor was Bierce resentful. Even after his break with both Sterling and Scheffauer, he continued to praise their work.

  Joaquin Miller was also a frequent visitor at the Lake Temescal camp. Bierce would greet him jovially, but there was a veiled antagonism that kept them from being personal friends. Polite as they were to each other, in some ways, Bierce did not hesitate to call Miller a liar on occasion. In a special article in The Examiner, Bierce once wrote: “In impugning Mr. Miller’s veracity, or rather, in plainly declaring that he has none, I should be sorry to be understood as attributing a graver moral delinquency than he really has. He cannot, or will not, tell the truth, but never tells a malicious or thrifty falsehood. From his incursions into the realm of romance he returns with clean but empty hands.” And he once wrote a most delightful burlesque of Miller’s poetry in “The Mormon Question”:

  “I said I will shake myself out of my clothes,

  I will roll up my sleeves, I will spit on my hands

  (The hands that I kissed to the sun in the lands

  To the north, to the east, to the south, and the west

  Of every sea that is under the sun),

  I will go to the land that the Gentile loathes

  As he gathers his one small wife to his breast

  And curses and loathes till his life is done.

  I will go to the place of the Mormon: the place

  Where the jackass rabbit is first in the race