The Letters of Ambrose Bierce Part 5

MY DEAR BLANCHE,

Not hearing from [you] after writing you last week, I fear you are ill--may I not know? I am myself ill, as I feared. On Thursday last I was taken violently ill indeed, and have but just got about. In truth, I'm hardly able to write you, but as I have to go to work on Friday, _sure_, I may as well practice a little on you. And the weather up here is Paradisaical. Leigh and I took a walk this morning in the woods. We scared up a wild deer, but I did not feel able to run it down and present you with its antlers.

I hope you are well, that you are all well. And I hope Heaven will put it into your good brother's heart to send me that picture of the sister who is so much too good for him--or anybody.

In the meantime, and always, G.o.d bless you.

AMBROSE BIERCE.

My boy (who has been an angel of goodness to me in my illness) sends his love to you and all your people.

[Angwin, Cal., January 14, 1893.]

MY DEAR PARTINGTON,

You see the matter is this way. You can't come up here and go back the same day--at least that would give you but about an hour here. You must remain over night. Now I put it to you--how do you think I'd feel if you came and remained over night and I, having work to do, should have to leave you to your own devices, mooning about a place that has n.o.body to talk to? When a fellow comes a long way to see me I want to see a good deal of him, however _he_ may feel about it. It is not the same as if he lived in the same bailiwick and "dropped in." That is why, in the present state of my health and work, I ask all my friends to give me as long notice of their coming as possible. I'm sure you'll say I am right, inasmuch as certain work if undertaken must be done by the time agreed upon.

My relations with Danziger are peculiar--as any one's relations with him must be. In the matter of which you wished to speak I could say nothing. For this I must ask you to believe there are reasons. It would not have been fair not to let you know, before coming, that I would not talk of him.

I thought, though, that you would probably come up to-day if I wrote you. Well, I should like you to come and pa.s.s a week with me. But if you come for a day I naturally want it to be an "off" day with me.

Sincerely yours,

AMBROSE BIERCE.

[Angwin, January 23, 1893.]

MY DEAR BLANCHE,

I should have written you sooner; it has been ten whole days since the date of your last letter. But I have not been in the mood of letter writing, and am prepared for maledictions from all my neglected friends but you. My health is better. Yesterday I returned from Napa, where I pa.s.sed twenty-six hours, buried, most of the time, in fog; but apparently it has not harmed me. The weather here remains heavenly. * * *

If I grow better in health I shall in time feel able to extend my next foray into the Lowlands as far as Oakland and Berkeley.

Here are some fronds of maiden-hair fern that I have just brought in.

The first wild flowers of the season are beginning to venture out and the manzanitas are a sight to see.

With warmest regards to all your people, I am, as ever, your most unworthy uncle,

AMBROSE BIERCE.

[Angwin, February 5, 1893.]

MY DEAR BLANCHE,

What an admirable reporter you would be! Your account of the meeting with Miller in the restaurant and of the "entertainment" are amusing no end. * * * By the way, I observe a trooly offle "attack" on me in the Oakland _Times_ of the 3rd (I think) * * * (I know of course it means me--I always know that when they pull out of their glowing minds that old roasted chestnut about "tearing down" but not "building up"--that is to say, effacing one imposture without giving them another in place of it.) The amusing part of the business is that he points a contrast between me and Realf (G.o.d knows there's unlikeness enough) quite unconscious of the fact that it is I and no other who have "built up" Realf's reputation as a poet--published his work, and paid him for it, when n.o.body else would have it; repeatedly pointed out its greatness, and when he left that magnificent crown of sonnets behind him protested that posterity would know California better by the incident of his death than otherwise--not a soul, until now, concurring in my view of the verses. Believe me, my trade is not without its humorous side.

Leigh and I went down to the waterfall yesterday. It was almost grand--greater than I had ever seen it--and I took the liberty to wish that you might see it in that state. My wish must have communicated itself, somehow, though imperfectly, to Leigh, for as I was indulging it he expressed the same wish with regard to Richard.

I wish too that you might be here to-day to see the swirls of snow. It is falling rapidly, and I'm thinking that this letter will make its way down the mountain to-morrow morning through a foot or two of it.

Unluckily, it has a nasty way of turning to rain.

My health is very good now, and Leigh and I take long walks. And after the rains we look for Indian arrow-heads in the plowed fields and on the gravel bars of the creek. My collection is now great; but I fear I shall tire of the fad before completing it. One in the country must have a fad or die of dejection and oxidation of the faculties. How happy is he who can make a fad of his work!

By the way, my New York publishers (The United States Book Company) have failed, owing me a pot of money, of which I shall probably get nothing. I'm beginning to cherish an impertinent curiosity to know what Heaven means to do to me next. If your function as one of the angels gives you a knowledge of such matters please betray your trust and tell me where I'm to be hit, and how hard.

But this is an intolerable deal of letter.

With best regards to all good Partingtons--and I think there are no others--I remain your affectionate uncle by adoption,

AMBROSE BIERCE.

Leigh has brought in some manzanita blooms which I shall try to enclose. But they'll be badly smashed.

[Angwin, February 14, 1893.]

MY DEAR BLANCHE,

I thank you many times for the picture, which is a monstrous good picture, whatever its shortcomings as a portrait may be. On the authority of the great art critic, Leigh Bierce, I am emboldened to p.r.o.nounce some of the work in it equal to Gribayedoff at his best; and that, according to the g. a. c. aforesaid, is to exhaust eulogium.

But--it isn't altogether the Blanche that I know, as I know her. Maybe it is the hat--I should prefer you hatless, and so less at the mercy of capricious fortune. Suppose hats were to "go out"--I tremble to think of what would happen to that gorgeous superstructure which now looks so beautiful. O, well, when I come down I shall drag you to the hateful photographer and get something that looks quite like you--and has no other value.

And I mean to "see Oakland and die" pretty soon. I have not dared go when the weather was bad. It promises well now, but I am to have visitors next Sunday, so must stay at home. G.o.d and the weather bureau willing, you may be bothered with me the Sat.u.r.day or Sunday after. We shall see.

I hope your father concurs in my remarks on picture "borders"--I did not think of him until the remarks had been written, or I should have a.s.sured myself of his practice before venturing to utter my mind o'

the matter. If it were not for him and Gertrude and the _Wave_ I should snarl again, anent "half-tones," which I abhor. Hume tried to get me to admire his ill.u.s.trations, but I would not, so far as the process is concerned, and bluntly told him he would not get your father's best work that way.

If you were to visit the Mountain now I should be able to show you a redwood forest (newly discovered) and a picturesque gulch to match.

The wild flowers are beginning to put up their heads to look for you, and my collection of Indian antiquities is yearning to have you see it.

Please convey my thanks to Richard for the picture--the girlscape--and my best regards to your father and all the others.

Sincerely your friend, AMBROSE BIERCE.

[Angwin, February 21, 1893.]

MY DEAR BLANCHE,

I'm very sorry indeed that I cannot be in Oakland Thursday evening to see you "in your glory," arrayed, doubtless, like a lily of the field.

However glorious you may be in public, though, I fancy I should like you better as you used to be out at camp.

Well, I mean to see you on Sat.u.r.day afternoon if you are at home, and think I shall ask you to be my guide to Grizzlyville; for surely I shall never be able to find the wonderful new house alone. So if your mamma will let you go out there with me I promise to return you to her instead of running away with you. And, possibly, weather permitting, we can arrange for a Sunday in the redwoods or on the hills. Or don't your folks go out any more o' Sundays?

Please give my thanks to your mother for the kind invitation to put up at your house; but I fear that would be impossible. I shall have to be where people can call on me--and such a disreputable crowd as my friends are would ruin the Partingtonian reputation for respectability. In your new neighborhood you will all be very proper--which you could hardly be with a procession of pirates and vagrants pulling at your door-bell.

So--if G.o.d is good--I shall call on you Sat.u.r.day afternoon. In the meantime and always be thou happy--thou and thine. Your unworthy uncle,