The Letters of Ambrose Bierce Part 16

You greatly overestimate the sums I spend in "charity." I sometimes help some poor devil of an unfortunate over the rough places, but not to the extent that you seem to suppose. I couldn't--I've too many regular, constant, _legitimate_ demands on me. Those, mostly, are what keep me poor.

Maybe you think it odd that I've not said a word in print about any of your work except the "Testimony." It is not that I don't appreciate the minor poems--I do. But I don't like to scatter; I prefer to hammer on a single nail--to push one b.u.t.ton until someone hears the bell.

When the "Wine" is published I'll have another poem that is not only great, but striking--notable--to work on. However good, or even great, a short poem with such a t.i.tle as "Poesy," "Music," "To a Lily," "A White Rose," and so forth, cannot be got into public attention. Some longer and more notable work, of the grander manner, may _carry_ it, but of itself it will not go. Even a bookful of its kind will not. Not till you're famous.

Your letter regarding your brother (who has not turned up) was needless--I could be of no a.s.sistance in procuring him employment.

I've tried so often to procure it for others, and so vainly, that n.o.body could persuade me to try any more. I'm not fond of the character of suppliant, nor of being "turned down" by the little men who run this Government. Of course I'm not in favor with this Administration, not only because of my connection with Democratic newspapers, but because, also, I sometimes venture to dissent openly from the doctrine of the divinity of those in high station--particularly Teddy.

I'm sorry you find your place in the office intolerable. That is "the common lot of all" who work for others. I have chafed under the yoke for many years--a heavier yoke, I think, than yours. It does not fit my neck anywhere. Some day perhaps you and I will live on adjoining ranches in the mountains--or in adjoining caves--"the world forgetting, by the world forgot." I have really been on the point of hermitizing lately, but I guess I'll have to continue to live like a reasonable human being a little longer until I can release myself with a conscience void of offense to my creditors and dependents. But "the call of the wild" sounds, even in my dreams.

You ask me if you should write in "A Wine of Wizardry" vein, or in that of "The Testimony of the Suns." Both. I don't know in which you have succeeded the better. And I don't know anyone who has succeeded better in either. To succeed in both is a marvelous performance. You may say that the one is fancy, the other imagination, which is true, but not the whole truth. The "Wine" has as true imagination as the other, and fancy into the bargain. I like your grandiose manner, and I like the other as well. In terms of another art I may say--rear great towers and domes. Carve, also, friezes. But I'd not bother to cut single finials and small decorations. However exquisite the workmanship, they are not worth your present attention. If you were a painter (as, considering your wonderful sense of color, you doubtless could have been) your large canvases would be your best.

I don't care if that satire of Josephare refers to me or not; it was good. He may jump on me if he wants to--I don't mind. All I ask is that he do it well.

I pa.s.sed yesterday with Percival Pollard, viewing the burnt district of Baltimore. He's a queer duck whom I like, and he likes your work.

I'm sending you a copy of "The Papyrus," with his "rehabilitation" of the odious Oscar Wilde. Wilde's work is all right, but what can one do with the work of one whose name one cannot speak before women?

Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE.

[Washington, D. C., April 19, 1904.]

DEAR GEORGE,

The "belatedness" of your letter only made _me_ fear that _I_ had offended _you_. Odd that we should have such views of each other's sensitiveness.

About Wood. No doubt that he is doing all that he can, but--well, he is not a publisher. For example: He sent forty or fifty "Shapes" here.

They lie behind a counter at the bookseller's--not even _on_ the counter. There are probably not a dozen persons of my acquaintance in Washington who know that I ever wrote a book. Now _how_ are even these to know about _that_ book? The bookseller does not advertise the books he has on sale and the public does not go rummaging behind his counters. A publisher's methods are a bit different, naturally.

Only for your interest I should not care if my books sold or not; they exist and will not be destroyed; every book will eventually get to _somebody_.

It seems to be a matter for you to determine--whether Wood continues to try to sell the book or it is put in other hands if he is ever tired of it. Remember, I don't care a rap what happens to the book except as a means of reimbursing you; I want no money and I want no glory. If you and Wood can agree, do in all things as you please.

I return Wood's letters; they show what I knew before: that the public and the librarians would not buy that book. Let us discuss this matter no more, but at some time in the future you tell me how much you are out of pocket.

_Your_ book shows that a fellow can get a good deal of glory with very little profit. You are now famous--at least on the Pacific Coast; but I fancy you are not any "for'arder" in the matter of wealth than you were before. I too have some reputation--a little wider, as yet, than yours. Well, my work sells tremendously--in Mr. Hearst's newspapers, at the price of a small fraction of one cent! Offered by itself, in one-dollar and two-dollar lots, it tempts n.o.body to fall over his own feet in the rush to buy. A great trade, this of ours!

I note with interest the "notices" you send. The one by Monahan is amusing with its gabble about your "science." To most men, as to him, a mention of the stars suggests astronomy, with its telescopes, spectroscopes and so forth. Therefore it is "scientific." To tell such men that there is nothing of science in your poem would puzzle them greatly.

I don't think poor Lang meant to do anything but his best and honestest. He is a rather clever and rather small fellow and not to be blamed for the limitations of his insight. I have repeatedly pointed out in print that it requires genius to discern genius at first hand.

Lang has written almost the best, if not quite the best, sonnet in the language--yet he is no genius.

Why, of course--why should you not help the poor devil, * * *; I used to help him myself--introduced him to the public and labored to instruct him. Then--but it is unspeakable and so is he. He will bite your hand if you feed him, but I think I'd throw a crust to him myself.

No, I don't agree with you about Homer, nor "stand for" your implied view that narrative poetry is not "pure poetry." Poetry seems to me to speak with a thousand voices--"a various language." The miners have a saying: "Gold is where you find it." So is poetry; I'm expecting to find it some fine day in the price list of a grocery store. I fancy _you_ could put it there.

As to Goethe, the more you read him, the better you will love Heine.

Thank you for "A Wine of Wizardry"--amended. It seems to me that the fake dictum of "Merlin-sage" (I don't quite perceive the necessity of the hyphen) is better than the hackneyed Scriptural quotation. It is odd, but my recollection is that it was the "sick enchantress" who cried "unto Betelgeuse a mystic word." Was it not so in the copy that I first had, or do I think so merely because the cry of one is more lone and awful than the cry of a number?

I am still of the belief that the poem should have at least a few breaks in it, for I find myself as well as the public more or less--I, doubtless, less than the public--indisposed to tackle solid columns of either verse or prose. I told you this poem "took away one's breath,"--give a fellow, can't you, a chance to recover it now and again.

"s.p.a.ce to breathe, how short soever."

Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done, on earth as it is in San Francisco. Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE.

[Washington, D. C., May 11, 1904.]

DEAR GEORGE,

To begin at the beginning, I shall of course be pleased to meet Josephare if he come this way; if only to try to solve the problem of what is in a fellow who started so badly and in so short a time was running well, with a prospect of winning "a place." Byron, you know, was the same way and Tennyson not so different. Still their start was not so bad as Josephare's. I freely confess that I thought him a fool.

It is "one on me."

I wonder if a London house would publish "Shapes of Clay."

Occasionally a little discussion about me breaks out in the London press, blazes up for a little while and "goes up in smoke." I enclose some evidences of the latest one--which you may return if you remember to do so. The letter of "a deeply disappointed man" was one of rollicking humor suggested by some articles of Barr about me and a private intimation from him that I should publish some more books in London.

Yes, I've dropped "The Pa.s.sing Show" again, for the same old reason--wouldn't stand the censorship of my editor. I'm writing for the daily issues of The American, mainly, and, as a rule, anonymously.

It's "dead easy" work.

It is all right--that "cry unto Betelgeuse"; the "sick enchantress"

pa.s.sage is good enough without it. I like the added lines of the poem.

Here's another criticism: The "Without" and "Within," beginning the first and third lines, respectively, _seem_ to be ant.i.thetic, when they are not, the latter having the sense of "into," which I think might, for clearness, be subst.i.tuted for it without a displeasing break of the metre--a trochee for an iambus.

Why should I not try "The Atlantic" with this poem?--if you have not already done so. I could write a brief note about it, saying what _you_ could not say, and possibly winning attention to the work. If you say so I will. It is impossible to imagine a magazine editor rejecting that amazing poem. I have read it at least twenty times with ever increasing admiration.

Your book, by the way, is still my constant companion--I carry it in my pocket and read it over and over, in the street cars and everywhere. _All_ the poems are good, though the "Testimony" and "Memorial Day" are supreme--the one in grandeur, the other in feeling.

I send you a criticism in a ma.n.u.script letter from a friend who complains of your "obscurity," as many have the candor to do. It requires candor to do that, for the fault is in the critic's understanding. Still, one who understands Shakspeare and Milton is not without standing as a complaining witness in the court of literature.