The Complete Works of
AMBROSE BIERCE
(1842-1913)
Contents
The Novellas
THE DANCE OF DEATH
THE MONK AND THE HANGMAN’S DAUGHTER
THE LAND BEYOND THE BLOW
The Short Story Collections
THE FIEND’S DELIGHT
COBWEBS FROM AN EMPTY SKULL
PRESENT AT A HANGING, AND OTHER GHOST STORIES
IN THE MIDST OF LIFE: TALES OF SOLDIERS AND CIVILIANS
CAN SUCH THINGS BE?
FANTASTIC FABLES
NEGLIGIBLE TALES
THE PARENTICIDE CLUB
THE FOURTH ESTATE
THE OCEAN WAVE
KINGS OF BEASTS
TWO ADMINISTRATIONS
MISCELLANEOUS TALES
The Short Stories
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Poetry Collections
BLACK BEETLES IN AMBER
SHAPES OF CLAY
FABLES IN RHYME
SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS
THE SCRAP HEAP
The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Non-Fiction
THE SHADOW ON THE DIAL, AND OTHER ESSAYS
THE DEVIL’S DICTIONARY
WRITE IT RIGHT
ASHES OF THE BEACON
“ON WITH THE DANCE!”: A REVIEW
A CYNIC LOOKS AT LIFE
TANGENTIAL VIEWS
BITS OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY
MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES AND REVIEWS
UNCOLLECTED ESSAYS
The Essays
LIST OF ESSAYS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF ESSAYS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Letters
THE LETTERS OF AMBROSE BIERCE
The Criticism
AMBROSE BIERCE by Vincent Starrett
AMBROSE BIERCE: AN APPRAISAL by Frederic Tabor Cooper
ANOTHER ATTEMPT TO BOOST BIERCE INTO IMMORTALITY
THE UNDERGROUND REPUTATION OF AMBROSE BIERCE
AMBROSE BIERCE by Ella Sterling Cummins
Biercian Texts
LIST OF BIERCIAN ARTICLES AND REVIEWS
The Biography
AMBROSE BIERCE: A BIOGRAPHY by Carey McWilliams
© Delphi Classics 2013
Version 1
The Complete Works of
AMBROSE BIERCE
By Delphi Classics, 2013
Other American Short Story writers
by Delphi Classics
www.delphiclassics.com
The Novellas
Meigs County, Ohio, 1904 — believed to be the birthplace of Ambrose Bierce. The precise location is not known.
The Court House today
The plaque commerotaing Bierce’s birth in Meigs County
Ambrose Bierce as a young man
THE DANCE OF DEATH
Bierce wrote The Dance of Death with Thomas A. Harcourt, published by Keller of San Francisco in 1877 and using the nom de plume, William Herman. Bierce later said that Harcourt’s father-in-law, the photographer William Rulofson, “suggested the scheme and supplied the sinews of sin.” Tongue firmly in cheek, the authors denounced the waltz, describing it in often lewd, lurid and lascivious terms. Critics and clergymen argued over whether the diatribe was serious or satirical and the fascinated public purchased 20,000 copies in its first year. An anonymous author replied by defending the waltz in The Dance of Life.
The first edition
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
Two Bierce letters dealing with the somewhat confusing authorship of ‘The Dance of Death’
THE DANCE OF DEATH BY WILLIAM HERMAN
“Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment
For sins on this wise?
For the glittering of raiment
And the shining of eyes,
For the painting of faces
And the sundering of trust,
For the sins of thine high places
And delight of thy lust?”
* * * * * * *
“Not with fine gold for a payment,
But with coin of sighs,
But with rending of raiment
And with weeping of eyes,
But with shame of stricken faces
And with strewing of dust,
For the sin of stately places
And lordship of lust.”
SWINBURNE.
PREFACE.
The writer of these pages is not foolish enough to suppose that he can escape strong and bitter condemnation for his utterances. On this score he is not disposed to be greatly troubled; and for these reasons: Firstly — he feels that he is performing a duty; secondly — he is certain that his sentiments will be endorsed by hundreds upon whose opinion he sets great value; thirdly — he relieves his mind of a burden that has oppressed it for many years; and fourthly — as is evident upon the face of these pages — he is no professed litterateur, who can be starved by adverse criticism. Nevertheless he would be apostate to his self-appointed mission if he invited censure by unseemly defiance of those who must read and pass judgment upon his work. While, therefore, he does not desire to invoke the leniency of the professional critic or the casual reader, he does desire to justify the position he has taken as far as may be consistent with good taste.
It will doubtless be asserted by many: That the writer is a “bigoted parson,” whose puritanical and illiberal ideas concerning matters of which he has no personal experience belong to an age that is happily passed. On the contrary, he is a man of the world, who has mixed much in society both in the old world and the new, and who knows whereof he affirms.
That he is, for some reason, unable to partake of the amusement he condemns, and is therefore jealous of those more fortunate than himself. Wrong again. He has drunk deeply of the cup he warns others to avoid; and has better opportunities than the generality of men to continue the draught if he found it to his taste.
That he publishes from motives of private malice. Private malice — no. Malice of a certain kind, yes. Malice against those who should know better than to abuse the rights of hospitality by making a bawdy-house of their host’s dwelling.
But the principal objection will doubtless refer to the plain language used.
My excuse, if indeed excuse be needed for saying just what I mean, is, that it is impossible to clothe in delicate terms the intolerable nastiness which I expose, and at the same time to press the truth home to those who are most in need of it; I might as well talk to the winds as veil my ideas in sweet phrases when addressing people who it seems cannot descry the presence of corruption until it is held in all its putridity under their very nostrils.
Finally, concerning the prudence and advisability of such a publication, I have only to say that I have consulted many leading divines and principals of educational institutions, all of whom agree that the subject must be dealt with plainly, and assure me that its importance demands more than ordinary treatment — that it is a foeman worthy of the sharpest steel; for, say they: To repeat the tame generalities uttered from the pulpit, or the quiet tone of disapprobation adopted by the press, would be to accord to the advocates of this evil a power which they do not
possess, and to proclaim a weakness of its opponents which the facts will not justify.
I have therefore spoken plainly and to the purpose, that those who run — or waltz — may read.
But there remains yet something to be said, which is more necessary to my own peace of mind, and to that of many of my readers, than all that has gone ‘before. So important is it, indeed, that what I am about to say should be distinctly understood by all those whose criticism I value, and whose feelings I respect, that I almost hesitate t6 consign it to that limbo of egotism — the preface.
Be it known, then, that although in the following pages I have, without compunction, attacked the folly and vice of those who practice such, yet I would rather my right hand should wither than that the pen it wields should inflict a single wound upon one innocent person. I am willing to believe, nay, I know, that there are many men and women who can and do dance without an impure thought or action; for theirs is not the Dance of Death; they can take a reasonable pleasure in one another’s society without wishing to be locked in one another’s embrace; they can rest content with such graces as true refinement teaches them are modest, without leaping the bounds of decorum to indulge in what a false and fatal refinement styles the “poetry of motion;” in short, to them the waltz, in its newest phases at least, is a stranger. I would not, like Lycurgus and Mahomet, cut down all the vines, and forbid the drinking of wine, because it makes some men drunk. Dancers of this class, therefore, I implore not to regard the ensuing chapters as referring to themselves — the cap does not fit their heads, let them not attempt to wear it. The same remarks will apply to some of those heads of families who permit and encourage dancing at their homes. Many among them doubtless exercise a surveillance too strict to admit of anything improper taking place within their doors; these stand in no need of either advice or warning from me. But more of them, I am grieved to say, are merely blameless because they are ignorant of what really does take place. The social maelstrom whirls nightly in their drawing-rooms; with their wealth, hospitality, and countenance they unconsciously, but none the less surely, lure the fairest ships of life into its mad waters. Let these also, then, not be offended that in this book I raise a beacon over the dark vortex, within whose treacherous embrace so many sweet young souls have been whirled to perdition.
CHAPTER I.
“That motley drama! Oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin
And Horror, the soul of the plot!”
POE.
Reader, I have an engagement to keep to-night. Let me take you with me; you will be interested.
But, stay — I have a condition to make before I accept of your company. Have you read the preface? “No, of course not; who reads prefaces?” Very well, just oblige me by making mine an exception — it is a Gilead where you perhaps may obtain balm for the wounds you will receive on our expedition. And now, supposing you to have granted this request, let us proceed.
Our carriage pulls up before the entrance of an imposing mansion. From every window the golden gaslight streams out into the darkness; from the wide-open door a perfect glory floods the street from side to side. There is a hum of subdued voices within, there is a banging of coach doors without; there is revelry brewing, we may be sure.
We step daintily from our carriage upon the rich carpet which preserves our patent-leathers from the contamination of the sidewalk; we trip lightly up the grand stone stairway to the entrance; obsequious lackeys relieve us of our superfluous raiment; folding doors fly open before us without so much as a “sesame” being uttered; and, behold, we enter upon a scene of enchantment.
Magnificent apartments succeed each other in a long vista, glittering with splendid decorations; costly frescoes are overhead, luxurious carpets are under foot, priceless pictures, rich laces, rare trifles of art are around us; an atmosphere of wealth, refinement, luxury, and good taste is all-pervading.
But these are afterthoughts with us; it is the splendor of the assembled company that absorbs our admiration now. Let us draw aside and observe this throng a little, my friend.
Would you have believed it possible that so much beauty and richness could have been collected under one roof? Score upon score of fair women and handsome men; the apparel of the former rich beyond conception — of the latter, Immaculate to a fault. The rooms are pretty well filled already, but the cry is still they come.
See yonder tall and radiant maiden, as she enters leaning upon the arm of her grey-headed father. Mark her well, my friend; I will draw your attention to her again presently. How proud of her the old man looks; and well he may. What divine grace of womanhood lives in that supple form; what calm, sweet beauty shines in that lovely face — a face so pure and passionless in expression that the nudity of bust and arms, and the contour of limbs more than suggested by the tightly clinging silk, call for no baser admiration than we feel when looking upon the representation of an angel. Observe closely with what high-bred and maidenly reserve she responds to the greeting of the Apollo in “full dress” who bows low before her — the very type of the elegant and polished gentleman. In bland and gentle tones he begs a favor to be granted a little later in the evening. With downcast eyes she smiles consent; with a bow he records the promise upon a tablet in his hand. Gracefully she moves forward again, leaning on her father’s arm, smiling and nodding to her acquaintances, and repeating the harmless little ceremony described above with perhaps a dozen other Apollos before she reaches the end of the room.
“Ah, pure and lovely girl!” I hear you mutter as she disappears, “happy indeed is he who can win that jewel for a wife. That face will haunt me like a dream!” Likely enough, O my friend! but dreams are not all pleasant.
Now look again at this young wife just entering with her husband. Is she not beautiful! and how devotedly she hangs upon his arm! With what a triumphant glance around the room he seems to say: “Behold my treasure — my very own; look at the gorgeousness of her attire, ladies, and pray for such a husband; gaze upon the fairness of her face, gentlemen, and covet such a wife.” Again the Apollos step blandly forward, again the little promises are lisped out and recorded. And so the goodly company go on, introducing and being introduced, and conversing agreeably together. A right pleasant and edifying spectacle, purely.
But, hark! The music strikes up; the dancing is about to begin. You and I do not dance; we withdraw to an adjoining room and take a hand at cards.
The hours go swiftly by and still we play on. The clock strikes two; the card-players are departing. But the strains of the distant music have been unceasing; the game does not flag in the ball-room. You have not seen a dance since your youth, you say, and then only the rude gambols of country-folk; you would fain see before you go how these dames and damsels of gentler breeding acquit themselves.
The dance is at its height; we could not have chosen a better time to see the thing in its glory.
As we approach the door of the ballroom the music grows louder and more ravishing than ever; no confusion of voices mars its delicious melody; the only sounds heard beneath its strains are a low swish and rustle as of whirling robes, and a light, but rapid and incessant shuffling of feet. The dull element has gone home; those who remain have better work to do than talking. We push the great doors asunder and enter.
Ha! the air is hot and heavy here; it breathes upon us in sensuous gusts of varying perfumes. And no wonder. A score of whirling scented robes stir it into fragrance. How beautiful — but you look aghast, my friend. Ah, I forgot; these are not the rude countryfolk of your youth. You are dazzled — bewildered. Then let me try to enliven your dulled senses with a description of what we see.
A score of forms whirl swiftly before us under the softened gaslight. I say a score of forms — but eac
h is double — they would have made two score before the dancing began. Twenty floating visions — each male and female. Twenty women knit and growing to as many men, undulate, sway, and swirl giddily before us, keeping time with the delirious melody of piano, harp, and violin, But draw nearer — let us see how this miracle is accomplished. Do you mark yonder tall couple who seem even to excel the rest in grace and ardor. Do they not make a picture which might put a soul under the ribs of Death? Such must have been the sight which made Speusippas incontinently rave: “O admirable, O divine Panareta! Who would not admire her, who would not love her, that should but see her dance as I did? O how she danced, how she tripped, how she turned! With what a grace! Felix qui Panareta fruitur! O most incomparable, only, Panareta!” Let us take this couple for a sample. He is stalwart, agile, mighty; she is tall, supple, lithe, and how beautiful in form and feature! Her head rests upon his shoulder, her face is upturned to his; her naked arm is almost around his neck; her swelling breast heaves tumultuously against his; face to face they whirl, his limbs interwoven with her limbs; with strong right arm about her yielding waist, he presses her to him till every curve in the contour of her lovely body thrills with the amorous contact. Her eyes look into his, but she sees nothing; the soft music fills the room, but she hears nothing; swiftly he whirls her from the floor or bends her frail body to and fro in his embrace, but she knows it not; his hot breath is upon her hair, his lips almost touch her forehead, yet she does not shrink; his eyes, gleaming with a fierce intolerable lust, gloat satyrlike over her, yet she does not quail; she is filled with a rapture divine in its intensity — she is in the maelstrom of burning desire — her spirit is with the gods.
Delphi Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Illustrated) Page 1