These were the active publishing years with Bierce. “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter” appeared in 1892; “Black Beetles in Amber,” which some wit suggested should be called “red peppers in vinegar,” in 1892; and “Can Such Things Be?” in 1893. Did Bierce select the title of this last volume to complete the thought suggested by the title of the English edition of his first volume of stories: “In the midst of life, can such things be?” Whether he did or not, he was annoyed to discover that “Can Such Things Be?” had been used as the title of a book by Keith Fleming, published by George Routledge, in London in 1889. He was to be similarly chagrined about “The Shadow on the Dial,” a phrase which Ruskin had previously used as a title.
In connection with “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter,” a fine, ironic romance, and “Black Beetles in Amber,” those tersely written lines of doggerel, it becomes necessary to discuss Bierce’s relations with Dr. Adolphe Danziger. This is a duty which, had it not been for the tremendous notoriety and publicity that the Doctor has attained by forcing the association of his name with Bierce as that of a “collaborator,” and for the misstatements that he has made, would be pleasantly ignored. In the first place, Dr. Danziger (he now calls himself DeCastro), claims that he is entitled to all the credit for “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter.” In a letter to me he made this statement: “at present no one but myself has any right to the story or the name on the title page.” This is, indeed, a most extraordinary claim. To begin with, the story was only a translation of a story by Dr. Richard Voss, originally written in German. Danziger made the translation, but admits that at the time he was not sufficiently familiar with the English language to do the story justice, and that he took the manuscript to Bierce and paid him to rewrite it. Whether he paid Bierce or not, the fact remains that Bierce rewrote the story and that Danziger had nothing whatever to do with the revision. Compare the chaste, simple style of the book as it now appears in print with the style of Dr. Danziger in books admittedly of his entire authorship, to wit, “In the Garden of Abdullah and other Poems,” a volume of verse privately published in Los Angeles. It would be doing the Doctor an unpardonable injustice to quote these verses, but any one who takes the pains to read them, along with Dr. Danziger’s collection of stories “In the Confessional,” will never be in doubt as to the pen that wrote “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter” as it now stands.
The Doctor, who has been at various times a dentist, a lawyer, and Rabbi of Congregation Bikur Cholin of San José, was once a publisher. He organized the Western Authors Publishing Company, in which enterprise, so he says, Bierce and W. C. Morrow, were partners. The plan of this company, according to the Doctor’s own explanation, was to charge poor, illiterate hacks who wanted to “write” an enormous sum to publish their books. That Bierce was ever a party to such a scheme is incredible and there is nothing in all his entire correspondence and papers that gives the slightest credence to such a statement. It clearly appears from Bierce’s correspondence that Dr. Danziger’s partner was one William Langton; that Bierce suspected both of them and that he dealt with both at a considerable fish’s pole distance, making copies of even the slightest note addressed to either, and trying, in every imaginable way to shield himself from the very charges that Dr. Danziger has made of recent years. It is significant that these charges were never made during Bierce’s lifetime.
Early in their acquaintance, Bierce had defended Dr. Danziger from a vicious attack by Dr. Jacob Voorsanger in the Jewish Times and Observer. Bierce soon came to rue the day that he made such a foolish gesture as the article he wrote in defense of Danziger. As a matter of fact, Bierce was always gullible about people. If they would flatter him, he would listen and then smile. The inevitable disappointments that followed on the revelation of unworth were among the saddest experiences in his life.
But, to return to Dr. Danziger, it seems that about 1893, the Doctor wanted to publish a collection of his own stories, “In the Confessional,” and that he greatly desired to have this book illustrated by J. H. E. Partington. To pay for this service, Dr. Danziger went to a very dear friend of Mr. Bierce, and, on the strength of his acquaintance, borrowed some three hundred dollars. When Bierce discovered what had been done, he was furious. Dr. Danziger has sniffed disdainfully at George Sterling’s statement that Bierce once broke a cane over the Doctor’s head. Were it not for this fact, omission would be made of what is, after all, a rather trivial and personal affair. Personally I did not see Bierce apply the cane, nor did Sterling. But Bierce did save the fragments of a broken cane, to remind him, so he said, “of the nature of friendship.” Moreover, he discussed his quarrel with Dr. Danziger in print and no denial was made, at the time, of his version of the facts. It would seem that these quotations state Bierce’s views rather clearly:
“I have not the conceit to suppose the public is interested in the business affairs which Dr. Danziger gratifies his nature at the expense of his welfare by lying about. It cannot make any material difference whether I swindled him or he swindled me; commercial usage and the proprieties of business were sufficiently observed if some one was swindled. Nor with reference to ‘The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter’ is it important whether he or I had the larger hand in spoiling the work of a better man than either. These matters are trivial and dull, even to me, except in so far as they show (as doubtless Heaven ordained them to do) how far a man may be willing to go in procuring food for the conceit in him. For nourishment of his insatiable inner dog, Dr. Danziger would steal any bone of recognition that he could not get by cheating. What is really amusing is his solemn censure of me for assaulting with fist, stick and pistol (he seems to have forgotten the cannon) an inoffensive ‘minister’ who desires to do his lying in peace. As to that, I beg leave to explain that having had no voice in Dr. Danziger’s choice of a profession, I do not feel compelled to suffer inconvenience from the abuse of it.
“As a matter of fact, the wretch is a ‘minister’ in the same way that Jonah, after being spewed ashore, was a part of the whale. I never was ashamed of being an infidel until Dr. Danziger assured me that he was one. For ten minutes I was an easy prey to any strolling exhorter that might have passed that way, cadging for souls.
“In Dr. Danziger is a dual individuality like that of a two-headed calf; the natures of saint and sinner are so intimately interblended as to make him preëminently a man of parts. He is a layman for lying and a minister for fighting. He carries his sacerdotal character in his hip-pocket and pulls it only when his face is slapped. He carries a pistol there, too, but when invited to pull that he says it is the proudest moment of his life, but family reasons, largely hereditary, compel him to decline. But, Lord, Lord, you should have heard this holy man of God swear when tapped upon the nimbus! And dance! — why, not a curly young worlding in San Francisco’s entire 400 ever footed it so neatly! O, a fine and serious minister he! — isn’t he, Dr. Voorsanger? By the way, Voorsanger — shake.”
Dr. Danziger has written that George Sterling was lying when he told the caning episode; furthermore, he says, the story was absurd since he could have “broken Bierce” with his hands. To this the answer might very conceivably be that in 1893 he had a perfect chance to do just that thing, and there is no record of his having done so. Moreover, he could have passed over the incident in his “Portrait of Ambrose Bierce” without calling George Sterling a liar and “irresponsible drunkard.” But since the issue has been raised, as suggested by Mr. Harry Hansen in the New York World, it should be met. It is not, perhaps, so trivial as might be assumed. If a biographer was once caned by his subject, it is submitted that the fact has at least some significance, from a critical standpoint.
In a subsequent issue of The Examiner, Bierce gave the public a further explanation:
“I wrote every word of ‘The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter’ as published. Until Dr. Danziger saw that it was a creditable book he never, so far as I know, professed to have done more than translate the Germa
n story by Dr. Voss upon which it was founded. I have never seen that story and do not read German; what changes he may have made I do not know, nor care. If there was as little of Dr. Voss in his version as there is of him in mine, I am unable to conjecture what the original yarn was like. It was for lying about that and other matters that I punished him; and apparently he is not yet reformed.”
Mr. Hansen, and those interested, can make such definition of the word “punished” as they desire; I make my own definition, and doubtless George Sterling made his.
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WITH these years an important chapter in Bierce’s life came to a close. The violent and impetuous days on The Wasp had kept him in a perpetual bad temper about a number of things that were of no ultimate importance. The close of the eighties had seen him swept to prominence with the publication of the three volumes of fiction upon which his reputation as a story-teller rests. With his work on The Examiner, he had attained an undeniable position of ascendancy on the coast. He was thus converted into a Master and a Prominent Figure. His picture was prominently displayed in “Men of the Pacific
Coast” published at this time. ‘Munsey’s Magazine (April, 1896), had announced that “Mr. Bierce” was an author of great importance, and a number of other periodicals had voiced similar views. On November 18, 1889, the Hon. Henry Highton had lectured on “Bierce as Satirist” in Honolulu. Bierce was made a member of the American Social Science Association in 1899, for “service in literature and journalism.” He became quite a grand figure with the publication of his stories. William Dean Howells announced in a lecture at Columbia University that “Mr. Bierce is among our three greatest writers,” to which Bierce had made answer that “I am sure Mr. Howells is the other two.” J. H. E. Partington painted his portrait which was exhibited at the World’s Fair in 1893 and won a gold medal. In this picture Bierce is shown standing by the side of his writing table, on which is a skull. Perhaps people would not have admired the portrait so much had they known that the “Skull,” when it was a “head,” had been a friend of Mr. Bierce! Several palmists came to study Mr. Bierce’s hand as painted by Partington, as it was thought to be a most interesting hand. It was announced in the newspapers that the “hand” was a masterpiece. One of these experts gave an interview in which he announced that: “the hand shows that Mr. Bierce has not had many love experiences.”
During these halcyon days, when nonsense was at its height as a national characteristic of our letters and art, that perennial lark of California song, Ella Sterling Cummins, was in charge of the “California Room” in the fine arts section, at the Fair. To those eager to learn about California in letters, she would gracefully suggest that they purchase: “A Story of the Files,” which she had written under the auspices of the World’s Fair Commission. In this interesting book all the grandees of California verse, song, and story are made immortal. Here, in the covers of one book, all the enemies came together, kissed, and for the honor of California, wrote flattering blurbs about each other. Mr. Bierce waived his acknowledged right of first slaughter and became a lamb of praise. He wrote of Joaquin Miller’s verse: “And here I wish to say, and upon the assertion stake whatever reputation for literary understanding I may chance to have, that in all the work of all the red planet’s victims there is not a larger, nobler, more purely poetic conception than this (of Miller’s) of their surviving brother, whom, in gratitude for the delight he has given me, I beg to warn that the menace of Mars burns implacable in the skies, ‘a still and awful red,’ etc.” To which the only response is: “Ambrose, you are a talented, gorgeous, and slightly inebriated liar.” It is incredible that Bierce wrote that blurb unless he was in his cups. I shall not quote it in its entirety: the experience would be unbearable. But turn about was fair play, for Markham, E. L. Clough, W. C. Morrow, Adele Chretien, Arthur McEwen, Mrs. Atherton, J. O’Hara Cosgrave, and George Hamlin Fitch joined in the love feast and showered the giant of Howell Mountain with an abundance of bouquets. Mr. Markham delved deep in his library and produced this morsel: “His is a composite mind — a blending of Hafiz the Persian, Swift, Poe, Thoreau, with sometimes a gleam of the Galilean.” To which might be added, with equal exactness, John Brown, Christopher Columbus and Florence Nightingale. It was the year of portraits and fairs, of compliments, bows to the gallery, and hand kissing. The spirit of Victoria’s Jubilee had permeated the states.
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TO-DAY Angwins’ Hotel has been removed and the spot where Ambrose Bierce wrote countless reams of “Prattle” is adorned with the pure and stately columns of the Pacific Union Theological Seminary: where “Bitter Bierce” sent forth his weekly thunderbolts of wit, the Seventh Day Adventists now perform their strange rituals and carry on their clandestine whispering with God. It is a circumstance that should be significant to those who believe, as did Bierce, that satire has a peculiar efficacy, and that nonsense can really be confounded by sharp wit and noble example.
Down in the Napa Valley, during these years when Bierce was fast becoming an Olympian, Mollie Day Bierce was reading “Trilby” with Mrs. Hunt, as it appeared in Harper’s Magazine, and kindly but firmly declining to see old friends. She lived quietly alone, at the foot of Howell Mountain, waiting and hoping that some day a reconciliation might be effected. She dressed invariably in black, but she would not permit even her unfortunate separation from her husband to make her gloomy or melancholy. When asked to play the piano for the “young people,” she would straighten out the folds of her dress, pin a flower from her shoulder, and play as long as they liked. One day she consented to go on a picnic in the mountains with some friends. The carriages toiled up the mountainside and came to a pause in a clearing. A man strode through a bit of brushwood and stood for a moment in the sunlight, as if puzzled and annoyed at the sight of the picnickers. He was tall and straight and handsome and many people called him a god. Mrs. Bierce hastened from the carriage and walked to his side. They stood apart from the others, whom Bierce did not recognize, and talked in low syllables for a few moments and then parted. They were never to see one another again.
CHAPTER XIII. BIERCE AND THE CHARNEL HOUSE
THE publication of “Tales of Soldiers and Civilians” in 1891 and of “Can Such Things Be?” in 1893, provoked the beginning of what has since become the most irregular body of critical opinion devoted to an American author of any prominence. The only parallel situation is that involved in the work of Edgar Allan Poe. Difficult as it is to analyze these stories, it is still more difficult to explain the interest that has always centered about the two slender volumes of fiction. Bierce only wrote, in all, about sixty-five short stories and this estimate takes into account the stories of two and three paragraphs collected under such topical heads as “Bodies of the Dead.” Of this group of short stories approximately eighteen are war stories and the rest, with one exception, are tales of the supernatural. And yet since 1893 Mr. Bierce has been hailed as a “bitterly realistic” writer, although by a simple mathematical calculation one can demonstrate that forty-seven of his stories are admittedly pure fancy and even the other eighteen are subject to close scrutiny on the same charge, as will be shown.
It is immediately apparent, upon the most casual examination, that many of Bierce’s stories are commonplace. Some of them are actually unreadable to-day. Yet it is upon this fragile foundation that his fame as a man of letters rests, since criticism in this country has always centered about his fiction with remorseless persistence and to the neglect of his great talent as a wit and satirist. It is quite a difficult task to explain why Bierce’s short stories have always attracted such an inordinate amount of interest and comment. It is not sufficient as an explanation to observe that, at the time they were first published, his stories were unusual. They had a quality, to be sure, but it was not a novel quality after Poe. What fascinated most readers was perhaps the thought that these stories represented a disordered mentality. Without the aid of modern psychology, it was a simple deduction from the short storie
s of Poe and the work of Maturin to assume that they were neurotic. And, since Bierce’s stories bore a superficial resemblance to the work of these men, was it not logical to assume that he, too, was the victim of some hallucination? The question has always been, whether openly stated or not, a personal problem. In other words, were Bierce’s stories subconsciously motivated?
That such has been the basis of the critical interest in his stories is apparent from an examination of some of the more serious comment about his work. Dorothy Scarborough, in “The Supernatural in Modern English Fiction,” first stated the issue and it has been raised by many writers since, including a specialist in psychiatry, Dr. Louis J. Bragman. Miss Scarborough wrote of Bierce’s stories: “The carrion ghosts of Bierce, animated by malignant foreign spirits, surpass the charnel shudders produced by the Gothic.... Bierce’s stories beat upon the mind like bludgeons and his morbid plots are among the most dreadful in our literature. One wonders what abnormality of mind conceives such themes, evolves such situations.” The inference that Bierce was mentally disordered has been echoed in a great portion of the criticism devoted to his work. The normal mind is interested in the spectacle of a man preoccupied, or seemingly preoccupied, with the macabre. A sound instinct makes such men suspect. And so it was with Bierce.
This problem of motivation is one which is germane and pertinent to a biography, because it is really a personal, rather than a critical, problem. At the outset, one is impressed with the fact that there is not a taint of abnormality about Bierce’s life. He was vigorous and healthy and possessed none of the symptoms of the neurotic. To be sure he was an asthmatic, but this of itself cannot be given great importance. It caused him considerable pain and was a constant annoyance, and it is true that frequently he had to take chloroform to obtain relief from his suffering. But personally he was far from “bitter” or “morose” and there is nothing in his life that one could hit upon to explain his work in the same manner that Mr. D. H. Lawrence and Dr. Joseph Wood Krutch have psycho-analyzed Poe. Bierce’s physician and an eminent nerve specialist who was his friend, have assured me that it would be a far stretch of the imagination to attribute the somber quality of his work directly to the fact that he was an asthmatic. Moreover, the stories are as nothing when compared with the enormous bulk of his satire. There are surely no clouds of abnormality enshrouding his satire. Bierce had a rather sharp perception of the limitations involved in the critical habit of moving from an author’s work into his life, as is shown by a note on Carlyle:
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 361