end of letter
Washington, D. C.,November 29,1910.
Dear Lora,
Thank you very much for the work that you are doing for me in photography and china. I know it is great work. But take your time about it.
I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving at Upshack. (That is my name for Sloots' place. It will be understood by anyone that has walked to it from Montesano, carryinga basket of grub on a hot day.)
I trust Sterling got his waistcoat and trousers in time to appear at his uncle's dinner in other outer garments than a steelpen coat. * * * I am glad you like (or like to have) the books. You would have had all my books when published if I had supposed that you cared for them, or even knew about them. I am now encouraged to hope that some day you and Carlt and Sloots may be given the light to see the truth at the heart of my "views" (which I have expounded for half a century) and will cease to ally yourselves with what is most hateful to me, socially and politically. I shall then feel (in my grave) that perhaps, after all, I knew how to write. Meantime, run after your false fool gods until you are tired; I shall not believe that your hearts are really in the chase, for they are pretty good hearts, and those of your gods are nests of nastiness and heavens of hate.
Now I feel better, and shall drink a toddy to the tardy time when those whom I love shall not think me a perverted intelligence; when they shall not affirm my intellect and despise its work—confess my superior understanding and condemn all its fundamental conclusions. Then we will be a happy family—you and Carlt in the flesh and Sloots and I in our bones.
* * *
My health is excellent in this other and better world than California.
God bless you.Ambrose.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,December 22,1910.
Dear Carlt,
You had indeed "something worth writing about"—not only the effect of the impenitent mushroom, but the finaland disastrous overthrow of that ancient superstition, Sloots' infallibility as a mushroomer. As I had expected to be at that dinner, I suppose I should think myself to have had "a narrow escape." Still, I wish I could have taken my chance with the rest of you.
How would you like three weeks of nipping cold weather, with a foot of snow? That's what has been going on here. Say, tell Sloots that the front footprints of a rabbit-track
rabbit tracks
are made by the animal's hind feet, straddling his forelegs. Could he have learned that important fact in California, except by hearsay? Observe (therefore) the superiority of this climate.
* * *
Ambrose.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,January 26,1911.
Dear Lora,
I have just received a very affectionate letter from * * * and now know that I did her an injustice in what I carelessly wrote to you about her incivility to me after I had left her. It is plain that she did not mean to be uncivil in what she wrote me on a postal card which I did not look at until I was in the train; she just "didn't know any better." So I have restored her to favor, and hope that you will consider my unkind remarks about her as unwritten. Guess I'm addicted to going off at half-cock anyhow.
Affectionately,Ambrose.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,February 3,1911.
Dear Lora,
I have the Yosemite book, and Miss Christiansen has the Mandarin coat. I thank you very much. The pictures are beautiful, but of them all I prefer that of Nanny bending over the stove. True, the face is not visible, but it looks likeyou all over.
I'm filling out the book with views of the Grand Cañon, so as to have my scenic treasures all together. Also I'm trying to get for you a certain book of Cañon pictures, which I neglected to obtain when there. You will like it—if I get it.
Sometime when you have nothing better to do—don't be in a hurry about it—will you go out to Mountain View cemetery with your camera and take a picture of the grave of Elizabeth (Lily) Walsh, the little deaf mute that I told you of? I think the man in the office will locate it for you. It is in the Catholic part of the cemetery—St. Mary's. The name Lily Walsh is on the beveled top of the headstone which is shaped like this:
headstone
You remember I was going to take you there, but never found the time.
Miss Christiansen says she is writing, or has written you. I think the coat very pretty.
Affectionately,Ambrose.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,February 15,1911.
Dear George,
As to the "form of address." A man passing another was halted by the words: "You dirty dog!" Turning to the speaker, he bowed coldly and said: "Smith is my name, sir."Myname is Bierce, and I find, on reflection, that I like best those who call me just that. If my christen name were George I'd want to be calledthat; but "Ambrose" is fit only for mouths of women—in which it sounds fairly well.
Howare you my master? I never read one of your poems without learning something, though not, alas, how to makeone.
Don't worry about "Lilith"; it will work out all right. As to the characters not seeming alive, I've always fancied the men and women of antiquity—particularly the kings, and great ones generally—should not be too flesh-and-bloody, like the "persons whom one meets." A little coldness and strangeness is very becoming to them. I like them tostalk, like the ghosts that they are—our modern passioning seems a bit anachronous in them. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm sure you will understand and have some sympathy with the error.
Hudson Maxim takes medicine without biting the spoon. He had a dose from me and swallowed it smiling. I too gave him some citations of great poetry that is outside the confines of his "definition"—poetry in which are no tropes at all. He seems to lack thefeelof poetry. He even spoils some of the "great lines" by not including enough of the context. As to his "improvements," fancy his preference for "the fiercest spirit ofthe warrior host" to "the fiercest spiritthat fought in Heaven"! O my!
Yes, Conrad told me the tale of his rescue by you. He gave me the impression of hanging in the sky above billows unthinkably huge and rocks inconceivably hard.
* * *
Of course I could not but be pleased by your inclusion of that sonnet on me in your book. And, by the way, I'm including in my tenth volume myCosmopolitanarticle on the "Wine" and my end of the controversy about it. All the volumes of the set are to be out by June, saith the publisher. He is certainly half-killing me with proofs—mountains of proofs! * * *
Yes, you'll doubtless have a recruit in Carlt for yourSocialist menagerie—if he is not already a veteran exhibit. Your "party" is recruited from among sore-heads only. There are some twenty-five thousand of them (sore-heads) in this neck o' woods—all disloyal—all growling at the Government which feeds and clothes them twice as well as they could feed and clothe themselves in private employment. They move Heaven and Earth to get in, and they never resign—just "take it out" in abusing the Government. If I had my way nobody should remain in the civil service more than five years—at the end of that period all are disloyal. Not one of them cares a rap for the good of the service or the country—as we soldiers used to do on thirteen dollars a month (with starvation, disease and death thrown in). Their grievance is that the Government does not undertake to maintain them in the style to which they choose to accustom themselves. They fix their standard of living just a little higher than they can afford, and would do so no matter what salary they got, as all salary-persons invariably do. Then they damn their employer for not enabling them to live up to it.
If they can do better "outside" why don't they go outside and do so; if they can't (which means that they are getting more than they are worth) what are they complaining about?
What this country needs—what every country needs occasionally—is a good hard bloody war to revive the vice of patriotism on which its existence as a nation depends. Meantime, you socialers, anarchists and other sentimentaliters and futilitarians will find the civil-service your best recruiting ground, for it is the Land of Reasonless Discontent. I yearn for the strong-handed Dictator who will swat you all on the mouths o' you till you are "heard to cease."Until then—How? (drinking.)
Yours sincerely,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,February 19,1911.
Dear Lora,
Every evening coffee is made for me in my rooms, but I have not yet ventured to take it fromyourcup for fear of an accident to the cup. Some of the women in this house are stark, staring mad about that cup and saucer, and the plate.
I am very sorry Carlt finds his position in the civil service so intolerable. If he can do better outside he should resign. If he can't, why, that means that the Government is doing better for him than he can do for himself, and you are not justified in your little tirade about the oppression of "the masses." "The masses" have been unprosperous from time immemorial, and always will be. A very simple way to escape that condition (and theonlyway) is to elevate oneself out of that incapable class.
You write like an anarchist and say that if you were a man you'dbeone. I should be sorry to believe that, for I should lose a very charming niece, and you a most worthy uncle.
You say that Carlt and Grizzly are not Socialists. Does that mean thattheyare anarchists? I draw the line at anarchists, and would put them all to death if I lawfully could.
But I fancy your intemperate words are just the babbling of a thoughtless girl. In any case you ought to know from my work in literature that I am not the person to whom to address them. I carry my convictions into my life and conduct, into my friendships, affections and all my relations with my fellow creatures. So I think it would be more considerateto leave out of your letters tomesome things that you may have in mind. Write them to others.
My own references to socialism, and the like, have been jocular—I did not think you perverted "enough to hurt," though I consider your intellectual environment a mighty bad one. As to such matters in future let us make a treaty of silence.
Affectionately,Ambrose.
end of letter
The Army andNavy Club,Washington, D. C.,March 1,1911.
My dear Ruth,
It is pleasant to know that the family Robertson is "seeing things" and enjoying them. I hate travel, but find it delightful when done by you, instead of me. Believe me, I have had great pleasure in following you by your trail of words, as in the sport known as the "paper chase."
And now about the little story. Your refusal to let your father amend it is no doubt dreadfully insubordinate, but I brave his wrath by approval. It isyourwork that I want to see, not anybody's else. I've a profound respect for your father's talent: as a litérateur, he is the best physician that I know; but he must not be coaching my pupil, or he and I (as Mark Twain said of Mrs. Astor) "will have a falling out."
The story is not a story. It is not narrative, and nothing occurs. It is a record of mental mutations—of spiritual vicissitudes—states of mind. That is the most difficult thing that you could have attempted. It can be done acceptably by genius and the skill that comes of practice, as can anything. You are not quite equal to it—yet. You have done it better than I could have done it at your age, but not altogether well; as doubtless you did not expect to do it. It would be better to confine yourself at present to simple narrative. Write of something done, not of somethingthought and felt, except incidentally. I'm sure it is in you to do great work, but in this writing trade, as in other matters, excellence is to be attained no otherwise than by beginning at the beginning—the simple at first, then the complex and difficult. You can not go up a mountain by a leap at the peak.
I'm retaining your little sketch till your return, for you can do nothing with it—nor can I. If it had been written—preferably typewritten—with wide lines and margins I could do somethingtoit. Maybe when I get the time I shall; at present I am swamped with "proofs" and two volumes behind the printers. If I knew that I shouldseeyou and talk it over I should rewrite it and (original in hand) point out the reasons for each alteration—you would see them quickly enough when shown. Maybe you will all come this way.
You areverydeficient in spelling. I hope that is not incurable, though some persons—clever ones, too—never do learn to spell correctly. You will have to learn it from your reading—noting carefully all but the most familiar words.
You have "pet" words—nearly all of us have. One of yours is "flickering." Addiction to certain words is an "upsetting sin" most difficult to overcome. Try to overcome it by cutting them out where they seem most felicitous.
By the way, your "hero," as you describe him, would not have been accessible to all those spiritual impressions—it isyouto whom they come. And that confirms my judgment of your imagination. Imagination is nine parts of the writing trade. With enough ofthatall things are possible; but it is the other things that require the hard work, the incessant study, the tireless seeking, the indomitable will. It is no "pic-nic," this business of writing, believe me. Successcomes by favor of the gods, yes; but O the days and nights that you must pass before their altars, prostrate and imploring! They are exacting—the gods; years and years of service you must give in the temple. If you are prepared to do this go on to your reward. If not, you can not too quickly throw away the pen and—well, marry, for example.
"Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring."
Myvote is that you persevere.
With cordial regards to all good Robertsons—I think there are no others—I am most sincerely your friend,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,April 20,1911.
Dear Lora,
Thank you for the pictures of the Sloots fire-place and "Joe Gans." I can fancy myself cooking a steak in the one, and the other eating one better cooked.
I'm glad I've given you the Grand Cañon fever, for I hope to revisit the place next summer, and perhaps our Yosemite bunch can meet me there. My outing this season will be in Broadway in little old New York. That is not as good as Monte Sano, but the best that I can do.
You must have had a good time with the Sterlings, and doubtless you all suffered from overfeeding.
Carlt's action in denuding the shaggy pelt of his hands meets with my highest commendation, but you'd better look out. It may mean that he has a girl—a Jewess descended from Jacob, with an hereditary antipathy to anything like Esau. Carlt was an Esaurian.
You'll have to overlook some bad errors in Vol. V of the C. W. I did not have the page proofs. Some of the verses are unintelligible. That's the penalty for philandering inCalifornia instead of sticking to my work.
* * *
Affectionately,Ambrose.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,April 28,1911.
Dear George,
I've been having noctes ambrosianæ with "The House of Orchids," though truly it came untimely, for I've not yet done reading your other books. Don't crowd the dancers, please. I don't know (and you don't care) what poem in it I like best, but I get as much delight out of these lines as out of any:
"Such flowers pale as areWorn by the goddess of a distant star—Before whose holy eyesBeauty and evening meet."
And—but what's the use? I can't quote the entire book.
I'm glad you did see your way to make "Memory" a female.
To Hades with Bonnet's chatter of gems and jewels—among the minor poetic properties they are better (to my taste) than flowers. By the way, I wonder what "lightness" Bonnet found in the "Apothecary" verses. They seem to me very serious.
Rereading and rerereading of the Job confirm my first opinion of it. I find only one "bad break" in it—and that not inconsistent with God's poetry in the real Job: "ropes of adamant." A rope of stone is imperfectly conceivable—is, in truth, mixed metaphor.
I think it was a mistake for you to expound to Ned Hamilton, or anybody, how you wrote the "Forty-third Chapter," or anything. When an author explains his methods ofcomposition he cannot expect to be taken seriously. Nine writers in ten wish to have it thought that they "dash off" things. Nobody believes it, and the judicious would be sorry to believe it. Maybe you do, but I guess you work hard and honestly enough over the sketch "dashed off." If you don't—do.
* * *
With love to Carrie, I will leave you to your sea-gardens and abalones.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
I'm off to Broadway next week for a season of old-gentlemanly revelry.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,May 2,1911.
Dear George,
In packing (I'm going to New York) I find this "Tidal" typoscript, and fear that I was to have returned it. Pray God it was not my neglect to do so that kept it out of the book. But if not, what did keep it out? Maybe the fact that it requires in the reader an uncommon acquaintance with the Scriptures.
If Robertson publishes any more books for you don't let him use "silver" leaf on the cover. It is not silver, cannot be neatly put on, and will come off. The "Wine" book is incomparably better and more tasteful than either of the others. By the way, I stick to my liking for Scheff's little vignette on the "Wine."
In "Duandon" you—you, Poet of the Heavens!—come perilously near to qualifying yourself for "mention" in a certain essay of mine on the blunders of writers and artists in matters lunar. You must have observed that immediately after the full o' the moon the light of that orb takes on a redness, and when it rises after dark is hardly a "towering glory," nor a "frozen splendor." Its "web" is not "silver." In truth, the gibbous moon, rising, has somethingof menace in its suggestion. Even twenty-four (or rather twenty-five) hours "after the full" this change in the quality and quantity of its light is very marked. I don't know what causes the sudden alteration, but it has always impressed me.
I feel a little like signing this criticism "Gradgrind," but anyhow it may amuse you.
Do you mind squandering ten cents and a postage stamp on me? I want a copy ofTown Talk—the one in which you are a "Varied Type."
I don't know much of some of your poets mentioned in that article, but could wish that you had said a word about Edith Thomas. Thank you for your too generous mention of me—who brought you so much vilification!
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,May 29,1911.
My dear Ruth,
You are a faithful correspondent; I have your postals from Athens and Syracuse, and now the letter from Rome. The Benares sketch was duly received, and I wrote you about it to the address that you gave—Cairo, I think. As you will doubtless receive my letter in due time I will not now repeat it—further than to say that I liked it. If it had been accompanied by a few photographs (indispensable now to such articles) I should have tried to get it into some magazine. True, Benares, like all other Asiatic and European cities, is pretty familiar to even the "general reader," but the sketch had something of the writer's personality in it—the main factor in all good writing, as in all forms of art.
May I tell you what you already know—that you aredeficient in spelling and punctuation? It is worth while to know these things—and all things that you can acquire. Some persons can not acquire orthography, and I don't wonder, but every page of every good book is a lesson in punctuation. One's punctuation is a necessary part of one's style; you cannot attain to precision if you leave that matter to editors and printers.
You ask if "stories" must have action. The name "story" is preferably used of narrative, not reflection nor mental analysis. The "psychological novel" is in great vogue just now, for example—the adventures of the mind, it might be called—but it requires a profounder knowledge of life and character than is possible to a young girl of whatever talent; and the psychological "short story" is even more difficult. Keep to narrative and simple description for a few years, until your wings have grown. These descriptions of foreign places that you write me are good practice. You are not likely to tell me much that I do not know, nor is that necessary; but your way of telling what I do know is sometimes very interesting as a study ofyou. So write me all you will, and if you would like the letters as a record of your travels you shall have them back; I am preserving them.
I judge from your letter that your father went straight through without bothering about me. Maybe I should not have seen him anyhow, for I was away from Washington for nearly a month.
Please give my love to your mother and sister, whom, of course, you are to bring here. I shall not forgive you if you do not.
Yes, I wish that you lived nearer to me, so that we could go over your work together. I could help you more in a few weeksthatway than in yearsthisway. God never does anythingjust right.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,July 31,1911.
Dear George,
Thank you for that Times "review." It is a trifle less malicious than usual—regardingme, that is all. My publisher, Neale, who was here last evening, is about "taking action" against that concern for infringement of his copyright in my little book, "Write It Right." The wretches have been serving it up to their readers for several weeks as the work of a woman named Learned. Repeatedly she uses my very words—whole passages of them. They refused even to confess the misdeeds of their contributrix, and persist in their sin. So they will have to fight.
* * * I have never been hard on women whose hearts go with their admiration, and whose bodies follow their hearts—I don't mean that the latter was the case in this instance. Nor am I very exacting as to the morality of my men friends. I would not myself take another man's woman, any more than I would take his purse. Nor, I trust, would I seduce the daughter or sister of a friend, nor any maid whom it would at all damage—and as tothatthere is no hard and fast rule.
* * *
A fine fellow, I, to be casting the first stone, or the one-hundredth, at a lovelorn woman, weak or strong! By the way, I should not believe in the love of a strong one, wife, widow or maid.
It looks as if I may get to Sag Harbor for a week or so in the middle of the month. It is really not a question of expense, but Neale has blocked out a lot of work for me. He wants two more volumes—even five more if I'll make 'em. Guess I'll give him two. In a week or so I shall be able tosay whether I can go Sagharboring. If so, I think we should have a night in New York first, no? You could motor-boat up and back.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.[14]
[14]Addressed to George Sterling at Sag Harbor, Long Island.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,Monday,August 7,1911.
Dear George,
In one of your letters you were good enough to promise me a motorboat trip from New York to Sag Harbor. I can think of few things more delightful than navigating in a motorboat the sea that I used to navigate in an open canoe; it will seem like Progress. So if you are still in that mind please write me what dayafter Saturday nextyou can meet me in New York and I'll be there. I should prefer that you come the day before the voyage and dine with me that evening.
I always stay at the Hotel Navarre, 7th avenue and 38th street. If unable to get in there I'll leave my address there. Or, tell me whereyouwill be.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
If the motorboat plan is not practicable let me know and I'll go by train or steamer; it will not greatly matter.A. B.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,Tuesday,August 8,1911.
Dear George,
* * *
Kindly convey to young Smith of Auburn my felicitations on his admirable "Ode to the Abyss"—a large theme, treated with dignity and power. It has many striking passages—such, for example, as "The Romes of ruined spheres." I'm conscious of my sin against the rhetoricians in liking that, for it jolts the reader out of the Abyss andback to earth. Moreover, it is a metaphor which belittles, instead of dignifying. But I like it.
He is evidently a student of George Sterling, and being in the formative stage, cannot—why should he?—conceal the fact.
My love to all good Californians of the Sag Harbor colony.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,November 16,1911.
Dear George,
It is good to know that you are again happy—that is to say, you are in Carmel. For yourfuturehappiness (if success and a certain rounding off of your corners would bring it, as I think) I could wish you in New York or thereabout. As the Scripture hath it: "It is not good for a man to be in Carmel"—Revised Inversion. I note that at the late election California damned herself to a still lower degradation and is now unfit for a white man to live in. Initiative, referendum, recall, employers' liability, woman suffrage—yah!
* * *
But you are not to take too seriously my dislike of * * *[15]I like him personally very well; he talks like a normal human being. It is only that damned book of his. He was here and came out to my tenement a few evenings ago, finding me in bed and helpless from lumbago, as I was for weeks. I am now able to sit up and take notice, and there are even fears for my recovery. My enemies would say, as Byron said of Lady B., I am becoming "dangerously well again."
* * *
As to harlots, there are not ten in a hundred that are such for any other reason than that they wanted to be. Theirexculpatory stories are mostly lies of magnitude.
Sloots writes me that he will perhaps "walk over" from the mine to Yosemite next summer. I can't get there much before July first, but if there is plenty of snow in the mountains next winter the valley should be visitable then. Later, I hope to beguest myself for a few days at the Pine Inn, Carmel. Tell it not to the Point Lobos mussel!
My love to Carrie.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
[15]Excised by G. S.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,December 27,1911.
Dear George,
As you do not give me that lady's address I infer that you no longer care to have me meet her—which is a relief to me.
* * *
Yes, I'm a bit broken up by the death of Pollard, whose body I assisted to burn. He lost his mind, was paralyzed, had his head cut open by the surgeons, and his sufferings were unspeakable. Had he lived he would have been an idiot; so it is all right—
"But O, the difference to me!"
If you don't think him pretty bright read any of his last three books, "Their Day in Court," "Masks and Minstrels," and "Vagabond Journeys." He did not see the last one—Neale brought down copies of it when he came to Baltimore to attend the funeral.
I'm hoping that if Carlt and Lora go to Wagner's mine and we go to Yosemite, Lora, at least, will come to us out there. We shall need her, though Carrie will find that Misses C. and S. will be "no deadheads in the enterprise"—to quote a political phrase of long ago. As to me, I shall leave my ten-pounds-each books at home and, like St.Jerome, who never traveled with other baggage than a skull, be "flying light." My love to Carrie.
Sincerely,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,January 5,1912.
Dear Lora,
It is good to hear from you again, even if I did have to give you a hint that I badly needed a letter.
I am glad that you are going to the mine (if you go)—though Berkeley and Oakland will not be the same without you. And where can I have my mail forwarded?—and be permitted to climb in at the window to get it. As to pot-steaks, toddies, and the like, I shall simply swear off eating and drinking.
If Carlt is a "game sport," and does not require "a dead-sure thing," the mining gamble is the best bet for him. Anything to get out of that deadening, hopeless grind, the "Government service." It kills a man's self-respect, atrophies his powers, unfits him for anything, tempts him to improvidence and then turns him out to starve.
It is pleasant to know that there is a hope of meeting you in Yosemite—the valley would not be the same without you. My girls cannot leave here till the schools close, about June 20, so we shall not get into the valley much before July first; but if you have a good winter, with plenty of snow, that will do. We shall stay as long as we like. George says he and Carrie can go, and I hope Sloots can. It is likely that Neale, my publisher, will be of my party. I shall hope to visit your mine afterward.
* * *
My health, which was pretty bad for weeks after returning from Sag Harbor, is restored, and I was never so youngin all my life.
Here's wishing you and Carlt plenty of meat on the bone that the new year may fling to you.
Affectionately,Ambrose.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,February 14,1912.
Dear George,
I'm a long time noticing your letter of January fifth, chiefly because, like Teddy, "I have nothing to say." There's this difference atwixt him and me—I could say something if I tried.
* * * I'm hoping that you are at work and doing something worth while, though I see nothing of yours. Battle against the encroaching abalone should not engage all your powers. That spearing salmon at night interests me, though doubtless the "season" will be over before I visit Carmel.
Bear Yosemite in mind for latter part of June, and use influence with Lora and Grizzly, even if Carlt should be inhumed in his mine.
We've had about seven weeks of snow and ice, the mercury around the zero mark most of the time. Once it was 13 below. You'd not care for that sort of thing, I fancy. Indeed, I'm a bit fatigued of it myself, and on Saturday next, God willing, shall put out my prow to sea and bring up, I hope, in Bermuda, not, of course, to remain long.
You did not send me the Weininger article on "Sex and Character"—I mean the extract that you thought like some of my stuff.
* * *
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,April 25,1912.
Dear George,
I did not go to Bermuda; so I'm not "back." But I did go to Richmond, a city whose tragic and pathetic history, of which one is reminded by everything that one sees there, always gets on to my nerves with a particular dejection. True, the history is some fifty years old, but it is always with me when I'm there, making solemn eyes at me.
You're right about "this season in the East." It has indeed been penetential. For the first time I am thoroughly disgusted and half-minded to stay in California when I go—a land where every prospect pleases, and only labor unions, progressives, suffragettes (and socialists) are vile. No, I don't think I could stand California, though I'm still in the mind to visit it in June. I shall be sorry to miss Carrie at Carmel, but hope to have the two of you on some excursion or camping trip. Wewantto go to Yosemite, which the girls have not seen, but if there's no water there it may not be advisable. Guess we'll have to let you natives decide. How would the Big Trees do as a substitute?
* * *
Girls is pizen, but not necessarily fatal. I've taken 'em in large doses all my life, and suffered pangs enough to equip a number of small Hells, but never has one of them paralyzed the inner working man. * * * But I'm not a poet. Moreover, as I've not yet put off my armor I oughtn't to boast.
So—you've subscribed for the Collected Works. Good! that is what you ought to have done a long time ago. It is what every personal friend of mine ought to have done, for all profess admiration of my work in literature. It is what I was fool enough to permit my publisher to think that many of them would do. How many do you guess have done so? I'll leave you guessing. God help the man withmany friends, fortheywill not. My royalties on the sets sold to my friends are less than one-fourth of my outlay in free sets for other friends. Tell me not in cheerful numbers of the value and sincerity of friendships.
* * *
There! I've discharged my bosom of that perilous stuff and shall take a drink. Here's to you.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
end of letter
Washington, D. C.,June 5,1912.
Dear George,
* * *
Thank you for the poems, which I've not had the time to consider—being disgracefully busy in order to get away. I don't altogether share your reverence for Browning, but the primacy of your verses on him over the others printed on the same page is almost startling. * * *
Of course it's all nonsense about the waning of your power—though thinking it so might make it so. My notion is that you've onlybegunto do things. But I wish you'd go back to your chain in your uncle's office. I'm no believer in adversity and privation as a spur to Pegasus. They are oftener a "hopple." The "meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin" will commonly do better work when tucked out with three square meals a day, and having the sure and certain hope of their continuance.
* * *
I'm expecting to arrive in Oakland (Key Route Inn, probably) late in the evening of the 22d of this month and dine at Carlt's on the 24th—my birthday. Anyhow, I've invited myself, though it is possible they may be away on their vacation. Carlt has promised to try to get his "leave"changed to a later date than the one he's booked for.
* * *
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
P.S.—Just learned that we can not leave here until the 19th—which will bring me into San Francisco on the 26th. Birthday dinner served in diner—last call!
I'vereadthe Browning poem and I now know why there was a Browning. Providence foresaw you and prepared him for you—blessed be Providence! * * *
Mrs. Havens asks me to come to them at Sag Harbor—and shouldn't I like to! * * * Sure the song of the Sag Harbor frog would be music to me—as would that of the indigenous duckling.
end of letter
The Army andNavy Club,Washington, D. C.,December 19,1912.
My dear Mr. Cahill,
I thank you for the article fromThe Argonaut, and am glad to get it for a special reason, as it gives me your address and thereby enables me to explain something.
When, several years ago, you sent me a similar article I took it to the editor of The National Geographical Magazine (I am a member of the Society that issues it) and suggested its publication. I left it with him and hearing nothing about it for several months called at his officetwicefor an answer, and for the copy if publication was refused. The copy had been "mislaid"—lost, apparently—and I never obtained it. Meantime, either I had "mislaid" your address, or it was only on the copy. So I was unable to write you. Indirectly, afterward, I heard that you had left California for parts to me unknown.
Twice since then I have been in San Francisco, but confessthat I did not think of the matter.
Cahill's projection[16]is indubitably the right one, but you are "up against" the ages and will be a long time dead before it finds favor, or I'm no true pessimist.
Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.
[16]The Butterfly Map of the World.