Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  The reaction of the younger generation to Bierce’s ideas is revealed in the correspondence between George Sterling and Jack London. Bierce had written that, in his opinion, “The Road” was a bad book. Sterling, always eager for a lively encounter of wits, wrote to London quoting Bierce. But he exaggerated and went so far as to inform London that Bierce had demanded that he give up their friendship under penalty of forfeiting the “Master’s” benediction. That Bierce ever made such a threat is not borne out by his correspondence with Sterling. Bierce would not be so ridiculous; moreover, he did appreciate what was meritorious about London’s work. (See a letter to Sterling published in “The Letters of Ambrose Bierce,” on page 105.) But Jack London, always “a good fellow,” did not resent Bierce’s alleged intolerance; in fact, he wrote Sterling with admirable spirit:

  “For heaven’s sake don’t you quarrel with Ambrose about me. He’s too splendid a man to be diminished because he has lacked access to a later generation of science. He crystallized before you and I were born, and it is too magnificent a crystallization to quarrel with.”

  But although one can admire London’s spirit, it is impossible to suppress a smile over his superior talk about a “later generation of science.” It is particularly amusing when one recalls that Bierce was actually something of a scientist, at least in the fields of astronomy and engineering, and that Jack London was woefully uneducated. What, forsooth, was this mysterious “science,” the ignorance of which made Mr. Bierce the subject of condescension, but the “statistics” of John Hunter and the rhapsodies of Lincoln Steffens? Because London had read Mr. Wells’ “In the Days of the Comet,” he assumed that he was privy to all the dark and unfathomable mysteries of life. In a later letter to Sterling, he made this comment:

  “I wouldn’t care to lock horns with Bierce. He stopped growing a generation ago. Of course, he keeps up with the newspapers, but his criteria crystallized 30 odd years ago. Had he been born a generation later he’d have been a socialist, and, more likely, an anarchist. He never reads books that aren’t something like a hundred years old, and he glories in the fact!”

  And in still a third letter, from Hilo, Hawaii, 1907, he said: “The quotes from Ambrose were great. What a pen he wields. Too bad he hasn’t a better philosophic foundation.”

  It is quite apparent that there is little comparison between the philosophy of the man who wrote “John Barleycorn” and the author of “Tales of Soldiers and Civilians.” Perhaps London would have been surprised had he known that Bierce wrote intelligently of Nietzsche in 1904; praised Ezra Pound’s poetry in manuscript before it was published in book form; was immediately enthusiastic about Baron Corvo’s “In His Own Image” when it was first published; defended Tolstoi’s “The Kreutzer Sonata” at a time when London was teething; praised Anatole France’s “L’Ille des Pingouins” when London thought that Voltaire was the last satirist; and was early in his appreciation of such books as John Galsworthy’s “In Motley” and Mary Austin’s “The Land of Little Rain.” London’s attitude is the more ridiculous when examined in the light of his latter-day renunciation of socialism and his heated resignation from the party in 1916. The writer of “rough-neck” literature is generally a sentimentalist, and London was no exception. One reference to his maudlin letters to “Mate Woman,” signed, “Mate Man,” is a sufficient commentary on this “cultured” gentleman who could afford to be gracious to Ambrose Bierce because he knew nothing of “science” and was not well read in the philosophies.

  The decade from 1900 to 1910 was a weak and fluffy period. It was rife with undergraduate free-thinking. In a series of articles by different writers, ranging from John Burroughs to Edwin Markham, on the subject “What Life Means to Me,” that appeared in The Cosmopolitan about this time, is reflected a milk-and-water sentimentality that is quite incredible to-day. Ella Wheeler Wilcox, who was regarded as quite a thinker, summed up the spirit of the times in a glowing apostrophe: “All hail to life — life here, and life beyond! For earth is but the preparatory school for a larger experience, for a greater usefulness.” Even Mr. Howells wrote a book entitled: “Between the Dark and Daylight.” What chance had Mr. Bierce in such an age?

  In his department of The Cosmopolitan, Bierce would occasionally review books. The temper of 1905 is suggested by a list of the books he noticed one month: “Mehr Licht” by Prof. Friederich Delitzsch; “History of Southern Literature” by Carl Holliday; “Temporal Power” by Marie Corelli, which sold 150,000 in a few weeks; “The Industrial Republic” by Upton Sinclair; “Pilgrimage” by C. A. Laurence; “Hypnotism and Spiritism” by Dr. Joseph Lapponi; Countess Von Arnheim’s “Elizabeth and Her German Garden”; Florence Wilkinson’s “The Silent Door” and a new biography of Victor Hugo. It was a bewildering deluge but to Bierce it was infinitely amusing.

  Occasionally he found a book that he could not review, as his critical vocabulary was inadequate. He once wrote the shortest book review ever written, by simply writing down the title of the book, the name of author and publisher, and then adding this comment: “The covers of this book are too far apart.” He would sometimes print a typical extract in horrific but silent disgust, as he did when he discovered a novel with this interesting passage:

  “She remained inactive in his embrace for a considerable period, then modestly disengaging herself looked him full in the countenance and signified a desire for self-communion. By love’s instinct he divined her purpose — she wanted to consider his proposal apart from the influence of the glamour of his personal presence. With the innate tact of a truly genteel nature he bade her good evening in French, and with measured tread paced away into the gathering gloom.”

  What comment could be made? In the midst of such a red plush age, Mr. Bierce’s silent integrity becomes the more striking and admirable. He was not alone in his position as a reviewer, for a young gentleman in Baltimore was also discovering an occasional gem. As one comrade to another, he wrote to Bierce:

  “Last night I struck one in which the heroine wants the hero to agree to preserve her virginity. He refuses and the marriage is postponed. A rival now sics a voluptuous wench upon him and he succumbs. Result: a hurry call for 606. While he is being cured the rival marries the heroine and convinces her, by a practical demonstration, that she was wrong about virginity. So she divorces him as a reward, marries the hero (cured by now), and the two go to the mat.”

  Not the least amusing reading of the day were the sermonettes of Benjamin de Casseres, the apt pupil of Elbert Hubbard, who turned out such stuff as: “All rational pleasure is prayer — prayer is an uplifting, a rising of the soul toward the object of its desire, an elevation of instinct.” It need scarcely be observed that Bierce was out of sympathy with the entire body of opinion during the decade that he lived in Washington.

  But, if Bierce’s cynicism was a fine guard against nonsense, it failed to forewarn him of the changes that time might bring. He was resolutely determined to disbelieve, which is sometimes the easiest road to gullibility. Accordingly when Langley’s attempted flight on December 8, 1903, was a failure, Bierce joined, in fact led, the jeering and derisive “skeptics” who said “I told you so.” Why, it was preposterous to think that aviation was feasible! Simply too absurd. Hence he wrote “The Rise and Fall of the Aeroplane” as a record of the limitations of skepticism. His friend Hudson Maxim wrote an answer in which he asserted, with a confidence that must have seemed insane in 1903, that aviation was already fait accompli.

  Bierce was occupied during his early years in Washington with arranging for the publication of several books. He wrote to S. O. Howes, in 1905, giving his sanction to a proposed volume to be compiled from early newspaper essays and articles. But his interest was apparently limited to publishing old copy; he had done little creative writing since 1893. “Fantastic Fables” appeared in 1899, but it, too, was merely a volume comprised of old newspaper copy. “Shapes of Clay,” a volume of doggerel, was published in 1903. It was financed by George Sterling
, illustrated by Herman Scheffauer, and its title was the suggestion of Mrs. Atherton who had read “Omar Khayyam.” Nearly all the scraps of verse in “Shapes of Clay” can, however, be traced into newspaper and magazine files. This was the case with all Bierce’s books; they were merely compiled journalism. Even his famous short stories had appeared, for the most part, in newspapers. Occasionally he would stop and make a book, either of stories, verse, fables or essays, but in truth he was merely putting his journalism into book form. He never wrote a book in the sense that he set down to create a work of art. Even “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter” was but an adaptation. Bierce was scarcely a man of letters, as the term is generally used, but was always the journalist. He possessed the journalist’s habit of writing fragmentary pieces; in other words, he wrote his column of “Prattle” week by week without thought of continuity or coherence. It became a mental habit and explains the fact that he never wrote a first rate book, not even a book of satire.

  He started to compile another volume from his voluminous collection of newspaper clippings. This time he showed better judgment, for he began to edit his “Devil’s Dictionary.” It was eventually printed by Doubleday, Page & Company under the title of “The Cynic’s Word Book.” While editing his work for this volume he wrote Howes: “The publishers doubtless think it a lot of clowneries like the book to which it gave the clue. When they find that it is only sense, wit and good English they will probably turn it down in a hurry.” His publishers did force him to use a new title. The former title, “The Devil’s Dictionary,” was too demoniacal for the America of 1906. But the volume met with little success, and Bierce suspected that it had been shelved by his timid publishers. It contains, in its present edition, his best wit. It was undoubtedly a forerunner of Mr. Mencken’s “jazz webster,” although the idea of a dictionary of wit is an ancient trick of the satirist. Bierce was in no mood to write books. He was full of grave misgivings about his entire career, and his life was a denial of one value after another. Why write books? The pity is that he ceased to think of making books, even out of old newspaper clippings, at a time when his work might possibly have met with a general interest in this country.

  The impetus to Bierce’s republishing mania was the enthusiasm of S. O. Howes. It had been Howes’ idea that a volume could be made of the early newspaper essays and to this suggestion Bierce had finally given his consent. It started the habit of looking over old clippings with a thought of more books. But surely Bierce did not entertain a very high regard for this material that Howes was editing, for he wrote: “I daresay there are many articles that are duplicated, and I blush to think how many times you’ll come upon the same ideas and expressions.... Then, too, you’ll find much that old man time has falsified, together with some views that I no longer hold, if I ever really and truly did.” Writing to Sterling about his early work, he said: “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.” It was a sharp observation. An American, transformed overnight into a journalist in 1866, would have a predisposition for romantic theories. Art would tend to be for him, something strange, remote, and fantastic. He would feel it a duty to be tangential and whimsical in his essays and slightly perverse in his satire. It is lamentable that Bierce did not come to grips with life until he was past middle age.

  Despite the fact that he saw clearly the defects of his early work, Bierce yet consented to its republication. It would seem that his chief motive was to see some of his journalism in book form before he died. He did not even take the trouble to rewrite the material that Howes selected, nor did he edit it. It was merely a matter of paste and scissors for Howes. Bierce was undoubtedly growing old. In his letters to Howes, he stressed the importance of the worst material, overruled the selections of wit and satire, and included a plethora of solemn stuff about the fall of the republic and the dangers of anarchism. The first title selected for the volume was “The Curmudgeon Philosopher” and such it should have remained. It was later changed, however, to “The Shadow on the Dial.” Bierce was rather apologetic about the volume and suggested to Howes, who was writing an introduction, “Maybe you can express a doubt about all these views being my final judgment of the matters treated and the impossibility of accurately drawing the line, always, between seriousness and levity. As I find it sometimes impossible, I assume you must.” It is difficult to reconcile his distrust of the worth of this material with his desire that it be published. His cynical misgivings about its reception were well founded. The book was sent to Doubleday, Page & Company, Brentano’s, Paul Elder, Appleton’s, The Century, and refused by all of them. Ultimately it was published by Alex. Robertson of San Francisco.

  Some of the contemporary reviews of the book were rather shrewdly written. For example, one reviewer in The Bookman (October, 1909) wrote: “Contempt, not prophecy, has always been Mr. Bierce’s animating spirit, and it is the animating spirit of these very slashing papers.... Anger is an excellent literary motive and the country needs a drubbing and always did; but somehow these wrathful passages seem to have no natural glow — only the steam heat of journalism.” It would be difficult to have selected a more appropriate phrase than “steam heat of journalism” for, in truth, the papers were written as journalism. The essays were, at the time they were written, fearless and able editorials, but as a book of ideas they were, of course, not representative of Bierce’s power and ability. The London Spectator (August 28, 1909) expressed the same thought: “Still, to be honest, we must own that Mr. Bierce’s words sound to us not infrequently to be somewhat wild and whirling.” An article in the St. Louis Mirror (May 5, 1904) said: “Mr. Bierce is a Niagara running to waste,” and the opinion was much to the point. It is interesting to contrast the simplicity and “great good sense” of his letters with the oracular manner that he unconsciously adopted in writing an essay. Of course, the letters are of a later date, but this is only a partial apology for the worst of his editorials. The essay, like the story, must be slightly ultramundane, it must be pitched in a tempo other than the casual.

  Yet there was never any clap-trap about Bierce’s essays, and when he was aiming at a specific target he always got his man, — or woman, — as when he said that Mrs. Humphrey Ward “suffers from a temporary impediment in her preach,” and “Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s characters are presumably male, manifestly middle-aged and prematurely moral.” It was only when he turned “curmudgeon philosopher” in old age that he failed to be impressive. But, as George Santayana said of Nietzsche: “We should forgive Nietzsche his boyish blasphemies. He hated with clearness, if he did not know what to love.”

  * * *

  THE days that passed were idle and dull. It was a period of boredom, the age of torpor. Gentlemen wheeled bicycles and ladies read thrilling accounts of M. Aguinaldo and the iniquitous prison system in Delaware. The years seemed hollow and bereft of significance. Bierce fell into the mood of sad reveries. He was irritated by futility, annoyed by misgivings about his own career. There was no animating principle to save his life from an unbearable emptiness. He was utterly quiet and inactive but a restless and impatient anxiety tugged constantly, urging him away from Washington. One illness followed another in remorseless succession. James Hopper called at his apartment in Washington and found Bierce suffering from lumbago. Another visitor records an impression of a weak and despondent man who had just recovered from an attack of asthma. His letters reflect the same low spirits. He enjoyed only “brief flashes of good health”; “I’ve got to be sick wherever I am, and prefer to be sick at ‘home’ among my angel girls who think it good fun to nurse me”; and, from another letter, “This is my birthday. I am 366 years old.”

  To his sickness and despondency was added the pain of shattered friendships. It was during this period that he quarreled with Scheffauer. The particular details are unimportant. As a matter of fact, they probably had nothing whatever to do wit
h the disagreement which was the result of a growing suspicion on the part of Bierce that Scheffauer was irresponsible and ungrateful. In this Bierce’s suspicions were well founded. But when the actual break came, it was a sharp, cruel pain. Scheffauer had written to a “mutual friend” that, in a controversy with Bierce, he had “come out on top.” The friend, of course, repeated the remark to Bierce, who replied, “So Scheff thinks he ‘comes out on top’ — he may have observed scum doing so.” But, in a letter to Howes, he said: “I’ve had a rather disheartening experience with Scheff. Still, I retain some small vestiges of my faith in the existence of a rudimentary gratitude in the heart of man. Don’t know about a German.” A month later he was still sad and depressed about the quarrel with Sheffauer. “A habit of the heart is not easily overcome. But I’ve just had to break off personal relations with him — the second time.”