I wrote you yesterday. Since then I have been rereading your letter. I
wish you would not say so much about what I have done for you, and how
much it was worth to you, and all that. I should be sorry to think
that I did not do a little for you--I tried to. But, my boy, you
should know that I don't keep that kind of service _on sale_.
Moreover, I'm amply repaid by what _you_ have done for _me_--I mean
with your pen. Do you suppose _I_ do not value such things? Does it
seem reasonable to think me unpleasured by those magnificent
dedicatory verses in your book? Is it nothing to me to be called
"Master" by such as you? Is my nature so cold that I have no pride in
such a pupil? There is no obligation in the matter--certainly none
that can be suffered to satisfy itself out of your pocket.
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 button 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 title 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 assistance in procuring him employment.
I've tried so often to procure it for others, and so vainly, that
nobody 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 passed 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.]