You will not, I hope, mind my saying that the first part of your
letter was so pleasing that it almost solved the disappointment
created by the other part. For _that_ is a bit discouraging. Let me
explain.
You receive my suggestion about trying your hand * * * at writing,
with assent and apparently pleasure. But, alas, not for love of the
art, but for the purpose of helping God repair his botchwork world.
You want to "reform things," poor girl--to rise and lay about you,
slaying monsters and liberating captive maids. You would "help to
alter for the better the position of working-women." You would be a
missionary--and the rest of it. Perhaps I shall not make myself
understood when I say that this discourages me; that in such aims
(worthy as they are) I would do nothing to assist you; that such
ambitions are not only impracticable but incompatible with the spirit
that gives success in art; that such ends are a prostitution of art;
that "helpful" writing is dull reading. If you had had more experience
of life I should regard what you say as entirely conclusive against
your possession of any talent of a literary kind. But you are so young
and untaught in that way--and I have the testimony of little
felicities and purely literary touches (apparently unconscious) in
your letters--perhaps your unschooled heart and hope should not be
held as having spoken the conclusive word. But surely, my child--as
surely as anything in mathematics--Art will laurel no brow having a
divided allegiance. Love the world as much as you will, but serve it
otherwise. The best service you can perform by writing is to write
well with no care for anything but that. Plant and water and let God
give the increase if he will, and to whom it shall please him.
Suppose your father were to "help working-women" by painting no
pictures but such (of their ugly surroundings, say) as would incite
them to help themselves, or others to help them. Suppose you should
play no music but such as--but I need go no further. Literature (I
don't mean journalism) is an _art_;--it is not a form of benevolence.
It has nothing to do with "reform," and when used as a means of reform
suffers accordingly and justly. Unless you can _feel_ that way I
cannot advise you to meddle with it.
It would be dishonest in me to accept your praise for what I wrote of
the Homestead Works quarrel--unless you should praise it for being
well written and true. I have no sympathies with that savage fight
between the two kinds of rascals, and no desire to assist
either--except to better hearts and manners. The love of truth is good
enough motive for me when I write of my fellowmen. I like many things
in this world and a few persons--I like you, for example; but after
they are served I have no love to waste upon the irreclaimable mass of
brutality that we know as "mankind." Compassion, yes--I am sincerely
sorry that they are brutes.
Yes, I wrote the article "The Human Liver." Your criticism is
erroneous. My opportunities of knowing women's feelings toward Mrs.
Grundy are better than yours. They hate her with a horrible
antipathy; but they cower all the same. The fact that they are a part
of her mitigates neither their hatred nor their fear.
* * * * *
After next Monday I shall probably be in St. Helena, but if you will
be so good as still to write to me please address me here until I
apprise you of my removal; for I shall intercept my letters at St.
Helena, wherever addressed. And maybe you will write before Monday. I
need not say how pleasant it is for me to hear from you. And I shall
want to know what you think of what I say about your "spirit of
reform."
How I should have liked to pass that Sunday in camp with you all. And
to-day--I wonder if you are there to-day. I feel a peculiar affection
for that place.
Please give my love to all your people, and forgive my intolerably
long letters--or retaliate in kind.
Sincerely your friend,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[St. Helena,
August 15, 1892.]
I KNOW, DEAR BLANCHE, of the disagreement among men as to the nature
and aims of literature; and the subject is too "long" to discuss. I
will only say that it seems to me that men holding Tolstoi's view are
not properly literary men (that is to say, artists) at all. They are
"missionaries," who, in their zeal to lay about them, do not scruple
to seize any weapon that they can lay their hands on; they would grab
a crucifix to beat a dog. The dog is well beaten, no doubt (which
makes him a worse dog than he was before) but note the condition of
the crucifix! The work of these men is better, of course, than the
work of men of truer art and inferior brains; but always you see the
possibilities--possibilities to _them_--which they have missed or
consciously sacrificed to their fad. And after all they do no good.
The world does not wish to be helped. The poor wish only to be rich,
which is impossible, not to be better. They would like to be rich in
order to be worse, generally speaking. And your working woman (also
generally speaking) does not wish to be virtuous; despite her
insincere deprecation she would not let the existing system be altered
if she could help it. Individual men and women can be assisted; and
happily some are worthy of assistance. No _class_ of mankind, no
tribe, no nation is worth the sacrifice of one good man or woman; for
not only is their average worth low, but they like it that way; and in
trying to help them you fail to help the good individuals. Your
family, your immediate friends, will give you scope enough for all
your benevolence. I must include your _self_.
In timely illustration of some of this is an article by Ingersoll in
the current _North American Review_--I shall send it you. It will be
nothing new to you; the fate of the philanthropist who gives out of
his brain and heart instead of his pocket--having nothing in that--is
already known to you. It serves him richly right, too, for his low
taste in loving. He who dilutes, spreads, subdivides, the love which
naturally _all_ belongs to his family and friends (if they are good)
should not complain of non-appreciation. Love those, help those, whom
from personal knowledge you know to be worthy. To love and help others
is treason to _them_. But, bless my soul! I did not mean to say all
this.
But while you seem clear as to your own art, you seem undecided as to
the one you wish to take up. I know the strength and sweetness of the
illusions (that is, _de_lusions) that you are required to forego. I
know the abysmal ignorance of the world and human character which,
as a girl, you necessarily have. I know the charm that inheres in the
beckoning of the Britomarts, as they lean out of their dream to
persuade you to be as like them as is compatible with the fact that
you exist. But I believe, too, that if you are set thinking--not
reading--you will find the light.
You ask me of journalism. It is so low a thing that it _may_ be
legitimately used as a means of reform or a means of anything deemed
worth accomplishing. It is not an art; art, except in the greatest
moderation, is damaging to it. The man who can write well must not
write as well as he can; the others may, of course. Journalism has
many purposes, and the people's welfare _may_ be one of them; though
that is not the purpose-in-chief, by much.
I don't mind your irony about my looking upon the unfortunate as
merely "literary material." It is true in so far as I consider them
_with reference to literature_. Possibly I might be willing to help
them otherwise--as your father might be willing to help a beggar with
money, who is not picturesque enough to go into a picture. As you
might be willing to give a tramp a dinner, yet unwilling to play "The
Sweet Bye-and-Bye," or "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," to tickle his ear.
You call me "master." Well, it is pleasant to think of you as a pupil,
but--you know the young squire had to watch his arms all night before
the day of his accolade and investiture with knighthood. I think I'll
ask you to contemplate yours a little longer before donning them--not
by way of penance but instruction and consecration. When you are quite
sure of the nature of your _call_ to write--quite sure that it is
_not_ the voice of "duty"--then let me do you such slight, poor
service as my limitations and the injunctions of circumstance
permit. In a few ways I can help you.
* * * * *
Since coming here I have been ill all the time, but it seems my duty
to remain as long as there is a hope that I _can_ remain. If I get
free from my disorder and the fear of it I shall go down to San
Francisco some day and then try to see your people and mine. Perhaps
you would help me to find my brother's new house--if he is living in
it.
With sincere regards to all your family, I am most truly your friend,