On his return to America, Bierce was made the subject of elaborate discoveries and had to reëstablish his reputation on the Pacific Coast. But the reputation which he soon acquired on The Argonaut was checked before it could attain national significance by his mining expedition into the Black Hills. After this venture, he was lost until his emergence as author of “Prattle” in the San Francisco Examiner. With the first issues of the Examiner containing “Prattle” he began to be recognized as one of the most unique figures in American journalism. The New York Sun would frequently quote his comments and the Australian newspapers, notably the Sydney Bulletin, followed his work with great interest. But as yet he had published no books in America; his reputation was merely that of a brilliant journalist.
With the publication of “Tales of Soldiers and Civilians” in 1891 a new situation arose. Contrary to many dearly cherished illusions the book was not “neglected,” but was the subject of a great deal of critical comment which was, with scarcely a single exception, enthusiastic. The author of any book in a new genre is immediately the subject of speculation, inquiry and comment. Novelty always provokes uneven critical comment and Bierce’s book was shockingly different. It surprised critics; they were taken aback by its excellence. But they were uncertain what to write about it or its author. At this time, as is generally the case with a new author of originality, a few left wing critics, with a great preliminary blaring of trumpets, began to proclaim the new God. Percival Pollard and Walter Blackburn Harte, who were both familiar with Bierce’s work in The Examiner and thus had an advantage over other eastern critics, sounded their praise at least three octaves too high. Rather, I should say, they were uncritical and struck the wrong note of praise. They could not, as a matter of fact, have praised the book too highly, at that time, for its appearance in 1891 was as phenomenal as the appearance in Graham’s Magazine, April, 1841, of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The critical situation that existed in 1891 remained essentially the same throughout Bierce’s lifetime, that is, excessive praise on the left and a long swing of the pendulum through intervening nuances of opinion over to the sharp disapproval at the right.
This tangential situation was one that naturally fostered misunderstanding. Bierce’s personality was warped to fit the critical opinion of his various commentators. Those who liked his work manufactured a God; those who disapproved had no difficulty in imagining a Devil. What they wanted to believe they created, and when meeting Bierce in the flesh they found at least sufficient justification for their views to warrant their confirmation. Reading this body of literature, which for scientific purposes should be gathered into a Library of Error, one cannot help being vastly amused with the entire affair. There are elements of the farcical in the Bierce Myth; the thing takes on the aspects of high comedy. But, amusing as the situation most assuredly is, there is grave danger that Bierce’s reputation may be sacrificed by it. Readers become confused; they sense a hoax and then hastily conclude that Bierce was a second-rate individual and a hack journalist.
Various minor elements have colored the legend. The “collectors” adopted Bierce at an early date, bidding high prices for his books and quarreling in angry voices, the strident notes of which reached general circulation, over debated points of authorship. The literary magazine on the fringe of the intellectual world always makes a fetish of figures which its editors think are “obscure” and which, by the very fact of their mention in such journals, could not be other than notorious. Bierce has always been a favorite of local reviews and “quarterlies.” The articles published in these esoteric journals have been uniformly misleading and have spread confusion about his work like a fatal contagion. There has been much shrewd comment about Bierce’s work, as I will have occasion to show, but it usually has come from unexpected sources and has been dismissed as incredible by the few who noticed it.
In the course of a Fourth of July oration in 1898, a western statesman invoked “the shades of Ambrose Bierce” to support some point in his argument. Referring to this inaccuracy the ghost wrote in his column of “Prattle” that “I am still on this side of the Styx. Moreover, I do not expect, even when reposing on beds of amaranth and moly, to have more than one shade.” Arthur Conan Doyle made a similar contribution to the legend in “Through the Open Door” (1908), when he ended an interesting paragraph with the phrase that Ambrose Bierce “was a great artist in his day.” The comment of such men as Conan Doyle and Arnold Bennett, while sound enough as criticism, could not be other than inaccurate as to Bierce’s life. These men belonged to another generation and did not remember Dod Grile of Fun.
And it must be borne constantly in mind that there was not a sound magazine article in print about Bierce’s life until George Sterling’s, “The Shadow Maker,” appeared in The American Mercury, in September of 1925. Mr. Vincent Starrett’s little book published in 1920, while interesting and valuable, did not contain much biographical information. Practically the entire body of criticism devoted to Bierce was written before the facts of his life and experience were known. When biographical information did not appear it was partial and fragmentary, and, while clearing up some points, left others in darker confusion than before the momentary illumination. Many people, for example, accepted all that George Sterling wrote about Bierce as true, when, as a matter of fact, Sterling’s article left much to be desired, even as a magazine summary. The new interest in Bierce, the interest of the present generation, rests on two pillars of comment: Mr. Mencken’s in this country and Arnold Bennet’s, written under the nom de plume of Jacob Tonson for The New Age, in England. This modern interest is sound and genuine and any book about Ambrose Bierce should be primarily addressed to the audience it represents.
There are many other factors that require analysis. The geographical isolation of Bierce (and to be an author in San Francisco in the seventies virtually amounted to exile), is important. Bierce was never present where he was being discussed. Critics seldom saw him and it is not surprising to find newspaper articles and stories that question his very identity and which suggest that Ambrose Bierce was a Myth and his reputation a hoax. When his name was a byword in San Francisco, he was living at San Rafael, or St. Helena, or Auburn, so that he was read but not seen. Once his reputation as a satirist on the Examiner began to assume national proportions, Mr. Hearst very cleverly took advantage of the situation by sending him East. There his comment was read by people who were already familiar with his work as it had been reprinted in the eastern papers for some time, but they continued to associate him with San Francisco, even when he was living in their midst. When he was available for inspection, so to speak, at Washington, the sound modern interest in his work had not been born, and, as a result, he was merely a curiosity for such men as Mr. Mencken and Mr. Horton who were delighted with his wit and amused by his cynicism.
Just as Bierce’s literary career was interrupted because of his untimely changes of residence, so were his books published. They never could be obtained when they were in demand. The three English volumes soon became collectors’ items, and, while they were frequently mentioned by Bierce’s admirers, they were never available, so that one could whisper that they were prodigious masterpieces without fear of refutation. His two volumes of verse and his most important collection of stories were published in the West in editions that were, more or less, limited and that were virtually destroyed by the great fire. These volumes were always difficult to obtain and when small eastern houses attempted to re-issue them, they failed and nothing came of their efforts. “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter” was hailed as a masterpiece by scores of critics whose familiarity with it must have been vicarious. This condition resulted in uncertainty and doubt. It was not until Mr. Neale brought out the handsome “de luxe” edition that Bierce’s writings became definitely available in the libraries. Even then the very appearance of such an edition was a source of mystery. There was absolutely no demand for a collected edition at the time it was published; it was out of al
l relation to Bierce’s fame or importance and remained a publishing curiosity for years. Who was this magnificently printed author? He must be some one, a person of transcendent importance. Professor Fred Lewis Pattee, whose frankness must have characterized the silent doubt of many, wrote to Mr. Neale asking: “Is Bierce really a great writer?”
So far only those elements which might be termed “impersonal” have been considered. But an equally important element in the creation of the Myth was the purely personal. Bierce was a master of gestures and his mockery was compound of echoes and shadows. He was regarded as something of a poseur; his downright candor was mistaken in some quarters for unnecessary arrogance. Just as Baudelaire did little to correct the legends current about his life, so would Bierce, with perverse satisfaction, permit the shadows to deepen. He became the phantom figure in some epic yarns: he slept in cemeteries; exhumed cadavers; spent long hours in the morgues studying the features of the disintegrating; hated dogs; loved reptiles; fought duels; and struck down his friends with great cruelty. He was so vital a personality, such an extraordinary man (and this is one point on which all forces converge in agreement), that he provoked an inordinate amount of comment and interest. Some people very shrewdly sensed that his writings inadequately expressed his personality, not in the sense that he was “frustrated by his environment,” but that he could find no subject adequate for his purposes. This disparity was of itself a source of mystification. The so-called “gloomy” stories were not subconsciously motivated, as I will have occasion to prove, and were written deliberately with an eye on a carefully established formula and with a definite end in view.
Then, too, from 1881 until his disappearance into Mexico he was always “the master” of a group of young writers. After the work of these pupils began to appear in print, thanks to Bierce’s interest and tutelage, they never lost an opportunity to sing their Master’s praise in strophes that were as far off-key as the early criticism had been. Just as Percival Pollard and Walter Blackburn Harte had overpraised the greatness of Bierce’s art, so these pupils excessively extolled his personality. This condition must have puzzled many readers for it was difficult to understand at the time. There was no comparison too grandiose for these pupils; Bierce was verily their God. George Sterling’s last letters to Bierce, written after an intimate acquaintance of twenty years, were still addressed to “Mr. Bierce” or “Dear Master” and written in the formal style of one accepting an invitation to appear before omnipotence itself. When Gertrude Atherton announced, at a time when she had a considerable reputation in England and France, that Bierce had “the best brutal imagination of any man in the English-speaking race” (whatever “best” and “brutal” may mean), it naturally provoked considerable comment and ultimate dissension.
Then, to seal the “mystery” of his life, Bierce made that dramatic exit into Mexico. Psychologically, nothing he ever did was more fortunate so far as his fame was concerned. Here was a man who not only wrote of mysterious disappearances but was one. Here was a cynic who yawned with disdain and had become so disgusted with his countrymen that he ventured south to escape boredom. A great silence engulfed his name and his fate was the subject of endless speculation. Every time a new story entitled “What Became of Ambrose Bierce?” would appear in print, it would release the pent-up imaginations of innumerable critics who would flounder anew in a problem that was not a problem and attempt to solve doubts that were certainties. The bibliography of the wild yarns attendant on his disappearance is reserved for a later section. But it is apparent, without an examination of them at this time, that they only spread confusion upon confusion so far as arriving at an sensible understanding of Bierce’s personality was concerned. His work was broken up into contradictory fragments and his personality became a Faust or Hamlet for any one to play improvisations upon. As George Sterling melodramatically remarked: Bierce’s enemies went into Mexico to feast on his bones.
In the wake of the War came the wave of disillusion that brought Bierce’s work into exact focus with public opinion, for he anticipated modern thought at many points. A later chapter has been added with the publication of volumes by C. Hartley Grattan, Dr. Danzinger, and Walter Neale, along with Vincent Starrett’s bibliography which, had it appeared years earlier, might have done much to avoid misunderstanding. These volumes are adequate testimony of the extent of Bierce’s latter-day fame and reputation, and, whether they succeed in throwing much light on his life or not, they at least emphasize an important consideration, although tacitly and by indirection, that he was much more interesting as a personality than he was important as a writer. To this one might add, as a corollary, that his personality was itself of the first importance; that the very appearance of such a man in America during his lifetime was an anachronism and a promise. His was a personality strangely prophetic of what one might expect from the America of another generation, in its rebellion under the leadership of Mr. Mencken. And, with the course of time, it can be hopefully forecast that the Myth surrounding his career will be dissolved, that his writings will be appreciated for their inherent values, and that the hard, bright, shining core of his illumination will become a part of our tradition.
CHAPTER I. MOSTLY GENEALOGICAL
ONE would imagine that the easiest task in connection with writing a biography about even so “mysterious” a character as Ambrose Bierce would be to state the pronunciation and spelling of his name with unqualified accuracy. And such is the case, if one is not too curious, but, historically, the name is shrouded in uncertainties. The first Bierce to arrive in this country was not a “Bierce” but was Austin Bearse, who sailed in the “Good Shippe Confidence” in 1638 from Southampton and landed at Barnstable (Cape Cod), Massachusetts.
According to ancient records, Austin Bearse was a small land owner. His farm consisted of twelve acres of very rocky land, which was bounded “easterly by John Crocker’s land, northerly by the meadow, easterly by Isaac Robinson’s land, and southerly into ye woods.” A road from his home to Hyannis is still known as “Bearse’s Way.” He was quite religious, having joined “Mr. Lothrop’s” church in 1643. His name stands at the head of the list of those converted after the church moved to Barnstable. He was very exact in the performance of religious duties, and insisted that children be baptized on the day of their birth, if Sunday, or on the next Sabbath. His son Joseph was born on a Sunday, and Austin carried him two miles to the church through a snowstorm so that he might receive a scriptural baptism. There is no record, unfortunately, whether Joseph survived his father’s act of faith, but if he died of exposure it was a holy and orthodox death.
So far as the records may be checked and verified, all members of the family in this country who spell their names Bearse, Bearce, Barss or Bierce, are descendants of Austin Bearse. But no two of these factions can agree on the correct spelling or pronunciation of what is admittedly a common family name. This condition of uncertainty is not, of course, an unusual occurrence with family names in America, where many of the early settlers were so illiterate that they could only remember the sound of their names, and had no knowledge of spelling. Some branches of the Bierce family pronounce the name as though it were spelled “Beerce”; another group spell the name “Bearse” and pronounce it as though it were spelled “Burse”; and there is even some authority for the theory that it is a derivative of “Pierce.” Originally the name was pronounced as if spelled “Barse” and many of the descendants still pronounce it in the ancient manner, even those who spell it “Bearss.” One branch of the family that lived at New Fairfield and New Milford, Connecticut, changed the spelling to “Barse,” while a group that emigrated to Canada changed the spelling to “Barss,” and still another branch residing at Port Clinton, Ohio, spell it “Bearss” but pronounce it as if spelled “Barse.” Such, then, is the history of the name.
As to the history of the family and its origin, a state of similar uncertainty prevails. Miss J. M. Ames, one of the family’s genealogists, believes there
is some basis for the theory that the Bierces originally came from Holland. But the better hypothesis, since it bears substantiation by a prominent member of the family who had a personal flair for historical vanities, would indicate that the family was of ancient Norman-French lineage. Such was the conviction of General Lucius Verus Bierce, and, from a sketch of his life by L. Moore, published at Akron, Ohio, in 1874, this information may be gleaned: “The family were originally Norman French, but long ago emigrated to, and settled in, England. The earliest historical account of the family and name that is accessible, is found in an old family Bible, printed in 1599, and still in the possession of General Bierce, in which is recorded on a fly-leaf the following incident:
“‘Marquis,’ said Louis XIV to Marquis de Bierce, ‘you make puns upon all subjects, make one on me.’
“‘Sire,’ replied the courteous Marquis, ‘you are no subject’!”
Wit and repartee would thus seem to be ancestral traits. Coupled with this Norman-French verve and wit and mental agility, there was a strong strain of the proudest Highland blood in the later Bierces. The wife of William Bierce was Abigail Bell, and she was the grandmother of Ambrose. Abigail was the daughter of Ketchal and Sarah (Whitney) Bell of Cornwall, Connecticut. The Bells were an old, proud, arrogant Scottish family. They were famous in Scotland and in Britain during several generations for their eminence as physicians and surgeons, numbering among their better known members, Sir Charles Bell, the distinguished anatomist, who enjoyed considerable fame and reputation in his day. Whatever ability Bierce inherited, it is quite apparent that it came to him from his father’s side of the family, for very little is known of Laura Sherwood, his mother. This inference is fortified by the fact that in Bierce both dominant ancestral traits, wit and arrogance, came to a fine flower.
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 337
