First, about the "Wine," I dislike the "privately printed" racket. Can
you let the matter wait a little longer? Neale has the poem, and Neale
is just now inaccessible to letters, somewhere in the South in the
interest of his magazine-that-is-to-be. I called when in New York, but
he had flown and I've been unable to reach him; but he is due here on
the 23rd. Then if his mag is going to hold fire, or if he doesn't want
the poem for it, let Robertson or Josephare have a hack at it.
Barr is amusing. I don't care to have a copy of his remarks.
About the pirating of my stories. That is a matter for Chatto and
Windus, who bought the English copyright of the book from which that
one story came. I dare say, though, the publication was done by
arrangement with them. Anyhow my interests are not involved.
I was greatly interested in your account of Mrs. Austin. She's a
clever woman and should write a good novel--if there is such a thing
as a good novel. I won't read novels.
Yes, the "Cosmopolitan" cat-story is Leigh's and is to be credited to
him if ever published in covers. I fathered it as the only way to get
it published at all. Of course I had to rewrite it; it was very crude
and too horrible. A story may be terrible, but must not be
horrible--there is a difference. I found the manuscript among his
papers.
It is disagreeable to think of the estrangement between * * * and his
family. Doubtless the trouble arises from his being married. Yes, it
is funny, his taking his toddy along with you old soakers. I remember
he used to kick at my having wine in camp and at your having a bottle
hidden away in the bushes.
I had seen that group of you and Joaquin and Stoddard and laughed at
your lifelike impersonation of the Drowsy Demon.
I passed the first half of last month in New York. Went there for a
dinner and stayed to twelve. Sam Davis and Homer Davenport were of the
party.
Sam was here for a few days--but maybe you don't know Sam. He's a
brother to Bob, who swears you got your Dante-like solemnity of
countenance by coming into his office when he was editing a newspaper.
You are not to think I have thrown * * * over. There are only two or
three matters of seriousness between us and they cannot profitably be
discussed in letters, so they must wait until he and I meet if we ever
do. I shall mention them to no one else and I don't suppose he will to
anyone but me. Apart from these--well, our correspondence was
disagreeable, so the obvious thing to do was to put an end to it. To
unlike a friend is not an easy thing to do, and I've not attempted to
do it.
Of course I approve the new lines in the "Wine" and if Neale or
anybody else will have the poem I shall insert them in their place.
That "screaming thing" stays with one almost as does "the blue-eyed
vampire," and is not only visible, as is she, but audible as well. If
you go on adding lines to the poem I shall not so sharply deplore our
failure to get it into print. As Mark Twain says: "Every time you draw
you fill."
The "Night in Heaven" is fine work in the grand style and its swing is
haunting when one gets it. I get a jolt or two in the reading, but I
dare say you purposely contrived them and I can't say they hurt. Of
course the rhythm recalls Kipling's "The Last Chanty" (I'm not sure I
spell the word correctly--if there's a correct way) but that is
nothing. Nobody has the copyright of any possible metre or rhythm in
English prosody. It has been long since anybody was "first." When are
you coming to Washington to sail in my canoe?
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Washington, D. C.,
April 5, 1906.]