Delphi Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Illustrated)

by Bierce, Ambrose

  Reverting to Scheff. What he has to fear (if he cares) is not incompetent criticism, but public indifference. That does not bite, but poets are an ambitious folk and like the limelight and the center of the stage. Maybe Scheff is different, as I know you are. Try to make him so if he isn’t. * * * Wise poets write for one another. If the public happens to take notice, well and good. Sometimes it does — and then the wise poet would a blacksmith be. But this screed is becoming an essay.

  Please give my love to all good Sterlings — those by birth and those by marriage. * * *

  My friends have returned to Washington, and I’m having great times climbing peaks (they are knobs) and exploring gulches and cañons — for which these people have no names — poor things. My dreamland is still unrevisited. They found a Confederate soldier over there the other day, with his rifle alongside. I’m going over to beg his pardon.

  Ever yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C. [Postmarked October 12, 1903.]]

  MY DEAR STERLING,

  I have Jack London’s books — the one from you and the one from him. I thank you and shall find the time to read them. I’ve been back but a few days and find a brace of dozen of books “intitualed” “Shapes of Clay.” That the splendid work done by Scheff and Wood and your other associates in your labor of love is most gratifying to me should “go without saying.” Surely I am most fortunate in having so good friends to care for my interests. Still, there will be an aching void in the heart of me until your book is in evidence. Honest, I feel more satisfaction in the work of you and Scheff than in my own. It is through you two that I expect my best fame. And how generously you accord it! — unlike certain others of my “pupils,” whom I have assisted far more than I did you.

  My trip through the mountains has done my health good — and my heart too. It was a “sentimental journey” in a different sense from Sterne’s. Do you know, George, the charm of a new emotion? Of course you do, but at my age I had thought it impossible. Well, I had it repeatedly. Bedad, I think of going again into my old “theatre of war,” and setting up a cabin there and living the few days that remain to me in meditation and sentimentalizing. But I should like you to be near enough to come up some Saturday night with some’at to drink. Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [N. Y. Journal Office, Washington, D. C., October 21, 1903.]

  MY DEAR STERLING,

  I’m indebted to you for two letters — awfully good ones. In the last you tell me that your health is better, and I can see for myself that your spirits are. This you attribute to exercise, correctly, no doubt. You need a lot of the open air — we all do. I can give myself hypochondria in forty-eight hours by staying in-doors. The sedentary life and abstracted contemplation of one’s own navel are good for Oriental gods only. We spirits of a purer fire need sunlight and the hills. My own recent wanderings afoot and horseback in the mountains did me more good than a sermon. And you have “the hills back of Oakland”! God, what would I not give to help you range them, the dear old things! Why, I know every square foot of them from Walnut Creek to Niles Cañon. Of course they swarm with ghosts, as do all places out there, even the streets of San Francisco; but I and my ghosts always get on well together. With the female ones my relations are sometimes a bit better than they were with the dear creatures when they lived.

  I guess I did not acknowledge the splendidly bound “Shapes” that you kindly sent, nor the Jack London books. Much thanks.

  I’m pleased to know that Wood expects to sell the whole edition of my book, but am myself not confident of that.

  So we are to have your book soon. Good, but I don’t like your indifference to its outward and visible aspect. Some of my own books have offended, and continue to offend, in that way. At best a book is not too beautiful; at worst it is hideous. Be advised a bit by Scheff in this matter; his taste seems to me admirable and I’m well pleased by his work on the “Shapes”; even his covers, which I’m sorry to learn do not please Wood, appear to me excellent. I approved the design before he executed it — in fact chose it from several that he submitted. Its only fault seems to me too much gold leaf, but that is a fault “on the right side.” In that and all the rest of the work (except my own) experts here are delighted. I gave him an absolutely free hand and am glad I did. I don’t like the ragged leaves, but he does not either, on second thought. The public — the reading public — I fear does, just now.

  I’ll get at your new verses in a few days. It will be, as always it is, a pleasure to go over them.

  About “Prattle.” I should think you might get help in that matter from Oscar T. Schuck, 2916 Laguna St. He used to suffer from “Prattle” a good deal, but is very friendly, and the obtaining it would be in the line of his present business.

  How did you happen to hit on Markham’s greatest two lines — but I need not ask that — from “The Wharf of Dreams”?

  Well, I wish I could think that those lines of mine in “Geotheos” were worthy to be mentioned with Keats’ “magic casements” and Coleridge’s “woman wailing for her demon lover.” But I don’t think any lines of anybody are. I laugh at myself to remember that Geotheos, never before in print I believe, was written for E. L. G. Steele to read before a “young ladies’ seminary” somewhere in the cow counties! Like a man of sense he didn’t read it. I don’t share your regret that I have not devoted myself to serious poetry. I don’t think of myself as a poet, but as a satirist; so I’m entitled to credit for what little gold there may be in the mud I throw. But if I professed gold-throwing, the mud which I should surely mix with the missiles would count against me. Besides, I’ve a preference for being the first man in a village, rather than the second man in Rome. Poetry is a ladder on which there is now no room at the top — unless you and Scheff throw down some of the chaps occupying the upper rung. It looks as if you might, but I could not. When old Homer, Shakspeare and that crowd — building better than Ozymandias — say: “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” I, considering myself specially addressed, despair. The challenge of the wits does not alarm me.

  * * * * *

  As to your problems in grammar.

  If you say: “There is no hope or fear” you say that one of them does not exist. In saying: “There is no hope nor fear” you say that both do not exist — which is what you mean.

  “Not to weary you, I shall say that I fetched the book from his cabin.” Whether that is preferable to “I will say” depends on just what is meant; both are grammatical. The “shall” merely indicates an intention to say; the “will” implies a certain shade of concession in saying it.

  It is no trouble to answer such questions, nor to do anything else to please you. I only hope I make it clear.

  I don’t know if all my “Journal” work gets into the “Examiner,” for I don’t see all the issues of either paper. I’m not writing much anyhow. They don’t seem to want much from me, and their weekly check is about all that I want from them.

  * * * * *

  No, I don’t know any better poem of Kipling than “The Last Chanty.” Did you see what stuff of his Prof. Harry Thurston Peck, the Hearst outfit’s special literary censor, chose for a particular commendation the other day? Yet Peck is a scholar, a professor of Latin and a writer of merited distinction. Excepting the ability to write poetry, the ability to understand it is, I think, the rarest of intellectual gifts. Let us thank “whatever gods may be” that we have it, if we haven’t so very much else.

  I’ve a lovely birch stick a-seasoning for you — cut it up in the Alleghanies.

  * * * * *

  Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., October 29, 1903.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  I return the verses — with apology for tardiness. I’ve been “full up” with cares.

  * * * * *

  I would not change “Religion” to “Dogma” (if I were you) for all “the pious monks of St. Bernard.” On
ce you begin to make concessions to the feelings of this person or that there is no place to stop and you may as well hang up the lyre. Besides, Dogma does not “seek”; it just impudently declares something to have been found. However, it is a small matter — nothing can destroy the excellence of the verses. I only want to warn you against yielding to a temptation which will assail you all your life — the temptation to “edit” your thought for somebody whom it may pain. Be true to Truth and let all stand from under.

  Yes, I think the quatrain that you wrote in Col. Eng’s book good enough to go in your own. But I’d keep “discerning,” instead of substituting “revering.” In art discernment carries reverence.

  Of course I expect to say something of Scheff’s book, but in no paper with which I have a present connection can I regularly “review” it. Hearst’s papers would give it incomparably the widest publicity, but they don’t want “reviews” from me. They have Millard, who has already reviewed it — right well too — and Prof. Peck — who possibly might review it if it were sent to him. “Prof. Harry Thurston Peck, care of ‘The American,’ New York City.” Mention it to Scheff. I’m trying to find out what I can do.

  I’m greatly pleased to observe your ability to estimate the relative value of your own poems — a rare faculty. “To Imagination” is, I think, the best of all your short ones.

  I’m impatient for the book. It, too, I shall hope to write something about. Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Navarre Hotel and Importation Co., Seventh Avenue and 38th St., New York, December 26, 1903.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  A thousand cares have prevented my writing to you — and Scheff. And this is to be a “busy day.” But I want to say that I’ve not been unmindful of your kindness in sending the book — which has hardly left my pocket since I got it. And I’ve read nothing in it more than once, excepting the “Testimony.” That I’ve studied, line by line — and “precept by precept” — finding in it always “something rich and strange.” It is greater than I knew; it is the greatest “ever”!

  I’m saying a few words about it in tomorrow’s “American” — would that I had a better place for what I say and more freedom of saying. But they don’t want, and won’t have, “book reviews” from me; probably because I will not undertake to assist their advertising publishers. So I have to disguise my remarks and work up to them as parts of another topic. In this case I have availed myself of my favorite “horrible example,” Jim Riley, who ought to be proud to be mentioned on the same page with you. After all, the remarks may not appear; I have the littlest editor that ever blue-penciled whatever he thought particularly dear to the writer. I’m here for only a few days, I hope.

  * * * * *

  I want to say that you seem to me greatest when you have the greatest subject — not flowers, women and all that, — but something above the flower-and-woman belt — something that you see from altitudes from which they are unseen and unsmelled. Your poetry is incomparable with that of our other poets, but your thought, philosophy, — that is greater yet. But I’m writing this at a desk in the reading room of a hotel; when I get home I’ll write you again.

  I’m concerned about your health, of which I get bad reports. Can’t you go to the mesas of New Mexico and round up cattle for a year or two — or do anything that will permit, or compel, you to sleep out-of-doors under your favorite stars — something that will not permit you to enter a house for even ten minutes? You say no. Well, some day you’ll have to — when it is too late — like Peterson, my friend Charley Kaufman and so many others, who might be living if they had gone into that country in time and been willing to make the sacrifice when it would have done good. You can go now as well as then; and if now you’ll come back well, if then, you’ll not only sacrifice your salary, “prospects,” and so forth, but lose your life as well. I know that kind of life would cure you. I’ve talked with dozens of men whom it did cure.

  You’ll die of consumption if you don’t. Twenty-odd years ago I was writing articles on the out-of-doors treatment for consumption. Now — only just now — the physicians are doing the same, and establishing out-of-door sanitaria for consumption.

  You’ll say you haven’t consumption. I don’t say that you have. But you will have if you listen to yourself saying: “I can’t do it.” * * *

  Pardon me, my friend, for this rough advice as to your personal affairs: I am greatly concerned about you. Your life is precious to me and to the world. Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  1904.

  [Washington, D. C., January 8, 1904.]

  MY DEAR GEORGE,

  Thank you so much for the books and the inscription — which (as do all other words of praise) affects me with a sad sense of my shortcomings as writer and man. Things of that kind from too partial friends point out to me with a disquieting significance what I ought to be; and the contrast with what I am hurts. Maybe you feel enough that way sometimes to understand. You are still young enough to profit by the pain; my character is made — my opportunities are gone. But it does not greatly matter — nothing does. I have some little testimony from you and Scheff and others that I have not lived altogether in vain, and I know that I have greater satisfaction in my slight connection with your and their work than in my own. Also a better claim to the attention and consideration of my fellow-men.

  Never mind about the “slow sale” of my book; I did not expect it to be otherwise, and my only regret grows out of the fear that some one may lose money by the venture. It is not to be you. You know I am still a little “in the dark” as to what you have really done in the matter. I wish you would tell me if any of your own money went into it. The contract with Wood is all right; it was drawn according to my instructions and I shall not even accept the small royalty allowed me if anybody is to be “out.” If you are to be out I shall not only not accept the royalty, but shall reimburse you to the last cent. Do you mind telling me about all that? In any case don’t “buy out Wood” and don’t pay out anything for advertising nor for anything else.

  The silence of the reviewers does not trouble me, any more than it would you. Their praise of my other books never, apparently, did me any good. No book published in this country ever received higher praise from higher sources than my first collection of yarns. But the book was never a “seller,” and doubtless never will be. That I like it fairly well is enough. You and I do not write books to sell; we write — or rather publish — just because we like to. We’ve no right to expect a profit from fun.

  It is odd and amusing that you could have supposed that I had any other reason for not writing to you than a fixed habit of procrastination, some preoccupation with my small affairs and a very burdensome correspondence. Probably you could give me a grievance by trying hard, but if you ever are conscious of not having tried you may be sure that I haven’t the grievance.

  I should have supposed that the author of “Viverols” and several excellent monographs on fish would have understood your poems. (O no; I don’t mean that your Muse is a mermaid.) Perhaps he did, but you know how temperate of words men of science are by habit. Did you send a book to Garrett Serviss? I should like to know what he thinks of the “Testimony.” As to Joaquin, it is his detestable habit, as it was Longfellow’s, to praise all poetry submitted to him, and he said of Madge Morris’s coyote poem the identical thing that he says of your work. Sorry to disillusionize you, but it is so.

  As to your health. You give me great comfort. * * * But it was not only from Scheff that I had bad accounts of you and “your cough.” Scheff, indeed, has been reticent in the matter, but evidently anxious; and you yourself have written despondently and “forecasted” an early passing away. If nothing is the matter with you and your lungs some of your friends are poor observers. I’m happy to have your testimony, and beg to withdraw my project for your recovery. You whet my appetite for that new poem. The lines

  “The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,

&nb
sp; Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon”

  give me the shivers. Gee! they’re awful! Sincerely yours,

  AMBROSE BIERCE.

  [Washington, D. C., February 5, 1904.]

  DEAR GEORGE,

  * * * * *

  You should not be irritated by the “conspiracy of silence” about me on the part of the “Call,” the “Argonaut” and other papers. Really my enemies are under no obligation to return good for evil; I fear I should not respect them if they did. * * *, his head still sore from my many beatings of that “distracted globe,” would be a comic figure stammering his sense of my merit and directing attention to the excellence of the literary wares on my shelf.

  As to the pig of a public, its indifference to a diet of pearls — our pearls — was not unknown to me, and truly it does not trouble me anywhere except in the pocket. That pig, too, is not much beholden to me, who have pounded the snout of it all my life. Why should it assist in the rite? Its indifference to your work constitutes a new provocation and calls for added whacks, but not its indifference to mine.