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the AMBROSE BIERCE site |
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Gertrude Atherton, a handsome woman in her early thirties Ambrose Bierce, a tall, distinguished man in his late forties Place, Sunol Glen, California, in a small resort hotel, 1891 (The train's wheels spark as they stop, bits of smoke and fire. Atherton steps from the train to the platform. She carries a parasol and a small travel kit. Her hair is blond, swept high on her head. There's a single strand of pearls at her neck and she wears a blue dress and shoes with pointed toes. Bierce is wearing his usual black suit. He's a middle-aged man of striking good looks, with a bristling mustache, beetling brows, and beautiful hands. Bierce has a mysterious quality about him. That interests her.)
ATHERTON
I'm clumsy, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
Nonsense, Mrs. Atherton. You simply stumbled.
ATHERTON
No, I'm prone to accidents. Once, I drank part of a glass of ammonia thinking it was water and nearly had to have my stomach pumped. I'm a walking calamity.
BIERCE
Calamities are of two kinds, misfortune to ourselves, and good fortune to others.
ATHERTON
She giggles.
BIERCE
I've been in isolation too much, my dear. William Randolph Hearst makes that possible by sending my check to wherever I choose to be. So I'm pleased to receive guests, especially one so attractive as you. Were all my visitors so comely I'd be a happy man, indeed. I've always believed that when God makes a beautiful woman, the devil opens a new register.
(She looks at him skeptically, not appreciating his comment about the devil and a new register. They walk up the front steps and stop on the porch.)
BIERCE
I received some distressing news the other day, Mrs. Atherton. About my friend Prentice Mulford.
ATHERTON
I've read some of Mr. Mulford's little stories. About mining in the frontier, as I recall.
BIERCE
He's dead.
ATHERTON
Terrible, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
They found his body, wrapped in a blanket, in a small boat in Sheepshead Bay, Long Island. His banjo was by his side. No one knows how he died. Apparently, he was trying to sail from Manhattan to Sag Harbor at the time of his death. We'll never know. He wasn't yet sixty.
ATHERTON
Quite a mystery.
BIERCE
Mulford was crazy in love, Mrs. Atherton. He had met a little tramp named Josie in London, a city I loved and he detested. He once called the British Museum an intellectual charnel house. Mulford decided to bring Josie to America. We all tried to talk him out of it, my friends Stoddard, and Miller, and I. After he returned to Sag Harbor, where he was born, he found out she'd been posing nude for commercial artists. For the extra money, she claimed. God knows Mulford wasn't bringing home any. Let me tell you how he found out about his wife's clandestine occupation. One day, he opened a package of cheap cigarettes and saw on it a picture of Josie. The girl was stark naked.
ATHERTON
Shocking.
BIERCE
They had words. They separated. He mourned for the girl, worthless as she was. He moved to a New Jersey swamp to live with the mosquitoes and snakes. He lived in a boat, became a virtual hermit. He wanted nothing, had nothing, but a few clothes, a little food, a spirit lamp, his pen and paper. A banjo. He turned out five-cent tracts about spiritualism, faith healing, and similar tommyrot. God knows Prentice Mulford wasn't endowed with much common sense. Although once, perhaps twenty years ago, he was the only one of a group of us sots to refuse to climb up a hill and pull down a Christian cross.
ATHERTON
That seems to have been a sensible decision, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
Perhaps. But then he began taking part in seances, claimed to have talked to the ghosts of John Wilkes Booth, Socrates, and an Indian maiden named Wawona. What's the difference between mysticism and intellectual suicide?
SCENE II
(Bierce and Atherton sit in rocking chairs on the porch of the Sunol Glen Hotel and muse. They sip lemonade and watch some guests playing croquet on the lawn.)
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce, you never answered my question.
BIERCE
Which one, my dear?
ATHERTON
The one I wrote you about some time ago. Why you appear to dislike dogs so much.
BIERCE
I can give you many reasons. (He snorts). Once, in St. Helena, I was walking through the woods with my daughter when a dog attacked us. The beast snapped at our legs and ankles. I saw an indolent looking fellow leaning against a tree, watching the whole thing, and I shouted at him to call his dog off. When he didn't, I pulled out my gun and shot the animal dead.
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce!
BIERCE
What was I to do? I walked over to the man and asked him why he hadn't called his dog away.
ATHERTON
What did he say?
BIERCE
The fellow shrugged and said, 'Ah, shucks, that dog wasn't mine.'
ATHERTON
(She laughs) I hope you don't make a habit of shooting dogs, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
No more than I do shooting men, my dear. (He becomes a bit expansive) I think I can best summarize my antipathy for the beasts with a little verse I wrote:
Snap-dogs, lap-dogs, always-on-tap-dogs,Smilers, defilers, Reekers and leakers. ATHERTON
(She laughs again) Quite amusing, Mr. Bierce, but it still doesn't answer my question.
BIERCE
My dear, the trouble with the modern dog is that he's the same old dog. Not an inch has the rascal advanced along the line of evolution. Take man for example.
ATHERTON
Yes?
BIERCE
We've ceased to squat upon our naked haunches and gnaw raw bones. But this canine childhood companion of our race, this dismal anachronism, this veteran inharmony in the scheme of things, has made no progress at all.
ATHERTON
Perhaps dogs weren't meant to make progress in human terms, Mr. Bierce. Perhaps they were always intended to be the companion to our breed.
BIERCE
Bosh, Mrs. Atherton. Nothing in our existence is intended to be, dogs included. To believe that is to believe that some superior being orchestrates life.
ATHERTON
That's certainly not unreasonable. Many intelligent people hold that belief.
BIERCE
I'd hate to deflate your views on religion, my dear. It would be unfair to one as young, naive, and pretty as you.
ATHERTON
You're much too condescending to me, Mr. Bierce. My views about religion are, no doubt, not much different from yours. I'd prefer to hear your position on dogs.
BIERCE
Mrs. Atherton, the dog is a detestable quadrupled. The word 'dog' is a term of contempt the world over. Poets and essayists have written of the virtues of individual dogs, but no one has ever eulogized the species. Man loves his own dog but not all dogs.
ATHERTON
Of course man loves his -- or her -- dog, Mr. Bierce. Because the dog returns the love.
BIERCE
Precisely, my dear. Man loves his own dog because that thrifty creature, ever cadging when not marauding, tickles man's vanity by fawning upon him as the visible source of steaks and bones. And also because the graceless beast insults everyone else, harming as many as he dares.
ATHERTON
That's an exaggeration, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
I never exaggerate, young lady. The dog's an encampment of fleas and a reservoir of sinful smells. He has no manners. No discrimination. His loyalty's given to the person that feeds him, whether his master is honorable or a blackguard.
ATHERTON
Your criticism could apply to humans as well as dogs. Have you not known humans to be encampments of fleas and reservoirs of sinful smells?
BIERCE
(He throws up his hands) It's hopeless speaking to you on this subject, Mrs. Atherton. Women adore not only dogs but the entire disgusting species. Then, of course, a woman will love anything.
ATHERTON
That, sir, is an insult.
BIERCE
Women even love men who love dogs. Tell me, Mrs. Atherton, have you ever kissed a dog?
ATHERTON
Certainly I've kissed a dog. And cats as well. Fuzzy, furry, vulnerable little creatures, they are.
BIERCE
Aha! Likely you've kissed more dogs and cats than men.
ATHERTON
If that's true, remember that I'm a widow, sir, and my preferred state.
BIERCE
It's my opinion that the female, widow or not, who holds a dog to her heart is without other lodgers, namely those of the human male species.
ATHERTON
Ridiculous. You seem to have as poor an opinion of women as you do dogs, and I resent it. I didn't take a two-hour train ride all the way to Sunol to be insulted by you.
BIERCE
I meant no personal insult. But if that's the way you feel about it, Mrs. Atherton, you're welcome to take the next train out.
ATHERTON
Perhaps I will.
BIERCE
Good.
(The two sit in angry silence. They hear the click of the croquet balls being struck by mallets. A horse fly zooms across the porch and circles around Atherton's head. She angrily brushes at it with her hand. Bierce, trying to make amends, shakes the lemonade pitcher, the ice tinkling)
BIERCE
Would you care for some more lemonade, Mrs. Atherton?
ATHERTON
Not at the moment, Mr. Bierce.
(Bierce refills his glass.)
ATHERTON (cont'd)
See here, Mr. Bierce. I came here to discuss literature with you, not dogs.
BIERCE
As I recall, it was you who raised the subject.
ATHERTON
And now I'm trying to raise the conversation to higher level.
BIERCE
Then proceed, my dear.
ATHERTON
The novel.
BIERCE
(He shakes his head) Don't waste your time thinking about the novel, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
Waste my time? That's precisely what I want to write. I've already written four of them, with varying results. And because of discrimination against women writers I've had to use a pseudonym.
BIERCE
Yes, that silly one you employed. Asmodeus.
ATHERTON
So you remember.
BIERCE
My dear, I still read the Argonaut, even though I have no use for its owner, Frank Pixley. I once worked for the bugger, after all.
ATHERTON
Mr. Pixley paid me one-hundred-fifty dollars for The Randolphs of Redwoods. That very first attempt at a novel of mine was published as a serial.
BIERCE
And how do you feel about that first attempt at a novel?
ATHERTON
Embarrassed.
BIERCE
Understandably.
ATHERTON
My next novel was published under the name of Fran Lin. A contraction of my mother's maiden name.
BIERCE
Are you proud of it? The novel, I mean.
ATHERTON
It was published, Mr. Bierce. Readers bought it.
BIERCE
So what? Madam, in any one quarter-century there can't be more than half a dozen novels that posterity will take the trouble to read.
ATHERTON
Hang posterity, Mr. Bierce. I intend to write for now.
BIERCE
And I'm telling you that contemporary novels are only read by reviewers and the multitude. They'll read anything as long as it's long, untrue, and new.
ATHERTON
Ridiculous. You're asserting we must read only the classics.
BIERCE
Readers of taste illuminate their minds and warm their hearts in Scott's suffusing glow. The strange, heatless glimmer of Hawthorne fascinates more and more. The Thousand-and-One Nights is the captain of tale-telling.
ATHERTON
If we were to listen to you, Mr. Bierce, there'd be no novels written today at all. There'd be no challengers to rival Scott and Hawthorne. We'd all be stuck in the past.
BIERCE
(He sputters) You're starting to annoy me, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
And you're long past annoying me, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
Dammit! (He composes himself. After all, he's dealing with a mere child.) Let me try to explain to you, Mrs. Atherton, that the modern novel's the lowest form of imagination. It's a diluted story filled with trivialities and nonessentials. I've never seen one that couldn't be cut by a half or three-quarters.
ATHERTON
Sir, the novel affords the writer the opportunity of developing character in the way a short story can't. It allows the telling of a story that may take place over many years, generations in fact, with many, many characters.
BIERCE
No, no, no. The novel bears the same relation to literature that a panorama bears to painting. A panorama lacks that basic quality needed in art: unity and totality of effect. As it can't be seen all at once, the panorama's parts must be viewed successively. It's the same with a story too long to be read in a single sitting.
ATHERTON
Just because you've never written one, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
What?
ATHERTON
You heard me. I've read your stories in the Examiner. Your Civil War stories, your ghost stories. They may be models of craftsmanship and style but they cry out for development. For amplification.
BIERCE
You have the temerity to tell me how my stories should be written?
ATHERTON
Somebody should, Mr. Bierce. In fact, your stories have no humanity. They're as cold as ice. And since they don't touch our hearts, your stories will never be remembered.
BIERCE
I don't write the kind of silly, trite, romantic pap that you do, Mrs. Atherton. And don't ever try to tell me your work will ever be remembered. If, indeed, you find some intelligence, other than myself, to read it.
ATHERTON
Pap you say? You gave me encouragement. You told me of my potential. I have your letters stating so. And now you call my work pap?
BIERCE
Obviously I was mistaken in my analysis of your potential.
ATHERTON
You're jealous, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
What the Sam Hill...
ATHERTON
Yes, jealous. Because you can't write novels. And you know I can. And will! Any clever, cultivated mind with a modicum of talent, such as you...
BIERCE
Modicum?
ATHERTON
...can manage a short story. But it takes a special person with a special endowment to master the novel. You don't have it, Mr. Bierce. All you can do is to criticize and to write bloodless short stories, twaddle, and mean-spirited verse.
BIERCE
Twaddle? Mean-spirited? How dare you come here to criticize me in that way?
ATHERTON
I'm not the only one who's critical of you, Mr. Bierce. I remember what William Greer Harrison wrote about you in the Argonaut.
BIERCE
Harrison? Who gives a damn what he says. Harrison's a better broker than a poet. All he has is his pen to suck and his thumbs to count.
ATHERTON
Mr. Harrison wrote that today the world laughs at Ambrose Bierce...
BIERCE
Enough!
ATHERTON
That you plagiarize from yourself...
BIERCE
No more!
ATHERTON
That you're the most complete literary failure of the century...
BIERCE
Cease, dammit!
ATHERTON
That you're only a sign-post marking the wreck of an utterly wasted life and the grave of a literary bully.
BIERCE
How dare you show me such little respect.
ATHERTON
Oh, ho, so you expected me to be a pilgrim carrying incense, wending my way to the shrine in order to sit at the feet of the Master.
BIERCE
I'm outraged.
ATHERTON
Yes, the Master. That's what your sycophants call you. Master, indeed!
(Bierce gets to his feet. His face is red. His eyes tear with anger.)
BIERCE
Excuse me, Mrs. Atherton. I must take your leave for a while.
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce... (She reaches out her hand.)
BIERCE
I'm having a little trouble breathing.
(He steps backward, bows, then leaves the porch and walks across the lawn, stabbing his walking stick into the ground. She sips her lemonade and watches him disappear into a grove of trees. She's satisfied at first, then feels a pang of conscience. Given a few more years, he could be old enough to be her father. He's had a terrible bereavement, has parted from his wife. His health is delicate. Perhaps she hasn't been as respectful to him as she should. He's almost a legend in Western letters, after all. And she has, in effect, imposed herself on him, has sought him out.)
SCENE III
(Atherton discovers Bierce sitting on a log among the trees.)
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce, I'm afraid I was terribly rude to you.
BIERCE
Indeed, young lady.
ATHERTON
I don't know what possessed me. You have my sincerest apology.
BIERCE
(He's calmer now) Perhaps I overreacted, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
A truce, Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
(He stands) A truce, Mrs. Atherton.
(They shake hands. He holds her hand slightly longer than he should.)
BIERCE (cont'd)
I believe it's time for lunch, my dear.
(Arm in arm they stroll through the woods and back to the hotel.)
SCENE IV
(In the dining room they sit by a window, the sun pouring in. They've finished their meal and are drinking coffee.) ATHERTON
Do you feel the same way about cats as you do dogs, Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
Absolutely not, Mrs. Atherton. Cats have a distinctly useful purpose.
ATHERTON
Oh?
BIERCE
Cats are a soft, indestructible automaton provided by nature to be kicked when things go wrong.
ATHERTON
That's not particularly funny, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
It wasn't particularly intended to be funny, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
At times, I question your humor, sir.
BIERCE
And I question humor that fails the test of wit.
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce, as much as I respect you as a writer, I find you too often caustic and biting.
BIERCE
We've covered this ground, young lady. You were well aware of my writing, my work, and my reputation long before you stepped on the train to pay homage to me.
ATHERTON
Homage?
BIERCE
(A little embarrassed by the slip) A figure of speech, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
I suppose I did have some curiosity...
BIERCE
About me?
ATHERTON
As to why you are so hated... and loved.
BIERCE
Did you know we're all hypnotists?
ATHERTON
I haven't given the subject thought.
BIERCE
Hypnotism's a mysterious force. Why is one person loved better than a another who may be more worthy of love?
ATHERTON
You're not saying that hypnotism...
BIERCE
Yes. The person who's better loved than the more worthy candidate has what's called personal magnetism. Some people actually have the quality to draw other persons to them just like a magnet attracts steel. Have you, Mrs. Atherton, ever, by oral argument, convinced anyone that he was wrong and you were right?
ATHERTON
(She thinks for a moment) Occasionally.
BIERCE
But not often. I venture to say that if you did succeed, it wasn't by your cogency and eloquence, it was by unconscious hypnotism that you did the trick.
ATHERTON
Oh, blather.
BIERCE
Your success in convincing another person depends on the degree of your hypnotic power, your opportunities of exerting it, and his susceptibility to it. Look at the members of Congress. They vote predictably, no matter how convincing the arguments to pass or defeat certain legislation. And generally they do the bidding of their more magnetic party leaders. Converting the heathen can't be done by talking, Mrs. Atherton, nor will logical argument make one loved. I admit that my ability to hypnotize is somewhat limited. As a result, I'm quite content to be hated...and occasionally loved.
ATHERTON
Your argument's quite specious, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
Is it now?
ATHERTON
Who's to say that one person is more worthy of love than another? What do you mean by worthy? Love has ramifications all of its own and has nothing to do with worthiness, personal magnetism, or hypnosis. Try again.
BIERCE
You dismiss my argument cavalierly, young lady.
ATHERTON
Then perhaps you are right, Mr. Bierce. Your own ability to hypnotize is quite limited. And I don't appreciate being referred to as 'young lady.' I'm a woman in my thirties.
BIERCE
(He glares at her) You're indeed an emancipated woman.
BIERCE
(She sniffs) Hardly, sir. I won't become emancipated until women's suffrage comes about. When do you suppose that'll be? Twenty or thirty years from now?
BIERCE
What's the rush, Mrs. Atherton? Men and women have survived without suffrage since time immemorial. What's a few more years?
ATHERTON
Precisely what I'd expect you to say. What's the hurry? After all, you have the right to vote.
BIERCE
Perhaps I'm old fashioned...
ATHERTON
You?
BIERCE
...but I'd like to know how the enlargement of a woman's sphere by her entrance into various activities of commercial, professional, industrial, and political life benefits the sex? Whatever employment women have obtained has been by displacing men who would otherwise be supporting women. Where's the general advantage?
ATHERTON
The general advantage, sir, is that it gives women the same opportunity as men to succeed -- and in the same fields. It allows women to broaden their minds and horizons in the very way that men do. And I believe that's salutary for the general population.
BIERCE
Mrs. Atherton, no woman's under obligation to sacrifice herself to the good of her sex by foregoing needed employment in the hope that it may fall to a man gifted with dependent women. But it's my opinion that the enlargement of women's opportunities hasn't benefited the sex as a whole. And I believe it's distinctly damaged the race.
ATHERTON
They'd never call you progressive, would they, Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
Not without a fight, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
What you do, sir, is to sit back and survey the world around you, find fault with it, cynically ridicule it, and not once offer a suggestion as to how to advance society.
BIERCE
I'm not employed to advance society.
ATHERTON
No one's employed to advance society, but most thinking people are obliged to try.
BIERCE
I view myself as an observer. And did I understand you to suggest that I'm not a thinking person?
ATHERTON
Oh, Mr. Bierce, how you think! But you support no cause, see no need for change. You deal in ridicule and sarcasm. You play the cynic's role. You stand for nothing.
BIERCE
I think I've had about enough of you, Mrs. Atherton. No matter what I say...
ATHERTON
No matter what you say you talk like an old crank.
BIERCE
How dare you.
ATHERTON
I dare, Mr. Bierce, I dare indeed.
(They sip their coffee in silence. Bierce refuses to look at Atherton until she withdraws a small, flat case from her purse and removes a cigarette. She puts the cigarette in her mouth.)
BIERCE
Mrs. Atherton...
ATHERTON
May I have a light please, Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
The hotel frowns on women...
ATHERTON
Who smoke? In their precious dining room? I'm sure I'll have no difficulty if you intervene on my behalf, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
There are those who feel it improper.
ATHERTON
Then I'm sure you'll be able to convince them otherwise.
(Bierce reluctantly finds a match in his coat. She places her hand on his as he lights the cigarette. Atherton inhales and returns the smoke through her nostrils. She inhales again. Releases the smoke.)
BIERCE
I'm somewhat tired and my breathing's a little delicate, Mrs. Atherton. I need a slight rest. Perhaps you'd care to accompany me to my room. Unless you're shy...or afraid.
ATHERTON
I'm neither shy nor afraid, Mr. Bierce. I'm not a conventional woman, as you've seen.
SCENE V
(They walk to a portion of the stage representing a small room containing a single chair, a table and lamp, a chest-of drawers, and a narrow bed. There is a bottle of chloroform on the table by a window. Bierce motions for her to occupy the chair while he sprawls on the bed. Atherton, now feeling awkward, wishes that they had returned to the porch instead. Bierce closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Uncomfortable and ignored, Atherton squirms in her chair.)
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce?
(No answer)
ATHERTON (cont'd)
Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
Yes?
ATHERTON
Are you falling asleep?
BIERCE
No, no, my dear.
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
Yes?
ATHERTON
You're sure you're not going to sleep?
BIERCE
Simply resting my eyes.
ATHERTON
Your eyes need resting?
BIERCE
Yes.
ATHERTON
Perhaps I should...
BIERCE
(Sharply) Perhaps, Mrs. Atherton, if you'll be silent for a few moments then I'll regain my vigor.
ATHERTON
(She stands) Be silent? You're rude, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
(He opens his eyes) I, rude? I simply asked for a few moments of quiet.
ATHERTON
If it's solitude you wish, I can certainly arrange that. I didn't come all the way to Sunol on the train for solitude.
BIERCE
(He sits up) You're starting to become hysterical, Mrs. Atherton.
ATHERTON
The pot calling the kettle black, I'd say.
BIERCE
You're challenging my sanity, Mrs. Atherton. And sanity is the state of mind which immediately precedes and follows murder.
ATHERTON
Is that a threat?
BIERCE
I'm too much of a gentleman to threaten a naive girl such as yourself.
ATHERTON
A gentleman? Really, sir. A gentleman doesn't fling himself on a bed in a woman's presence -- not a girl's -- close his eyes, and start to snore.
BIERCE
Dammit, I did not snore.
(His face and ears turn red. His breathing becomes coarse. He gasps for air. He gropes for the chloroform bottle but bumps it from the side table. The bottle smashes as it falls to the floor. The room fills with sweet, sickening fumes. Atherton runs to the window and opens it to allow the vapor to dissipate. Then she returns to the bed and puts her hand on his arm.)
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce, are you all right?
BIERCE
The asthma. (He chokes)
ATHERTON
The broken bottle. It smells like chloroform.
BIERCE
For my breathing. (He gasps)
ATHERTON
Lie back, Mr. Bierce, lie back.
(Wheezing, he reclines on the bed.)
ATHERTON
Let me get you something.
BIERCE
(He waves his hand) No. Just give me a minute.
(Bierce, breathing heavily, gradually composes himself. His eyes close. He snores. Atherton again begins to feel pangs of guilt for goading the man as she had. But not too much guilt.)
ATHERTON
(Speaking to Bierce, but knowing he's asleep) You are insufferable, indeed. I despise people who are so unalterably convinced of their own genius and correctness that they dismiss out of hand the views of others. Besides, too many Californians consider you to be the final arbiter on matters ranging from literature to politics. Who are you anyway, but a middle-aged blowhard, convinced of your own infallibility. Still, there's something vulnerable about you. A blusterer who tries desperately to hide your susceptibility with wind and steam. You're a melancholy man. (She pauses) And quite beautiful.
BIERCE
(He opens his eyes) Did you say something, Mrs. Atherton?
ATHERTON
I said, how are you, Mr. Bierce?
BIERCE
I'm better now. Sometimes I need to rest after a meal. The asthma...
ATHERTON
Mr. Bierce. (She puts her hand on his. He takes it, squeezes it.) I was angry. Perhaps I was hard on you.
BIERCE
No, no, my dear. I was hard on you.
ATHERTON
Nonsense, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
And you're right, Mrs. Atherton. I can't write novels.
ATHERTON
But you're a great writer.
BIERCE
I'm a hack. A failure. I'm in the employ of William Randolph Hearst. The money he spends for an Egyptian mummy in its case would feed me for a year. Two years, three. I've spent virtually my entire life writing and have little to show for it but three slim volumes of humor published in England when I was very, very young, and a tiny book of stories. I labor for a man I barely respect. A man who's not content to cover the news. He creates it, and then trumpets his meager triumphs in vile and obscene headlines. He wants to orchestrate a war for the sake of circulation. By God, some day he'll do it. And my name's associated with William Randolph Hearst.
ATHERTON
But your stories...
BIERCE
They've all been published in newspapers. Read, then discarded. Used for wrapping fish and garbage.
ATHERTON
The stories in Tales of Soldiers and Civilians are brilliant, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
But bloodless. Cold as ice. Twaddle.
ATHERTON
I'm sorry I said that. Your fiction is as good as any I've ever read. No one has written about the Civil War with such clarity and keenness.
BIERCE
Thank you, my dear.
(He rolls his legs to the floor and sits up on the bed)
And I didn't mean it when I said your fiction was pap. You're a fine novelist and someday you'll be a great one.
ATHERTON
I know, Mr. Bierce.
BIERCE
(He looks at his watch) Your train is about to arrive, Mrs. Atherton.
SCENE VI
(He holds her hand as he walks her to the station to catch the evening train. Not far from the platform is a pigsty. They hear the grunts.) BIERCE
Look at the pigs, Mrs. Atherton. Doing what pigs do.
ATHERTON
Which is not unlike what humans do.
BIERCE
Mrs. Atherton, a pig's closely allied to the human race by the splendor and vivacity of its appetite, which, however, is inferior in scope, because the pig sticks at being a pig.
ATHERTON
A pity humans don't do the same.
BIERCE
I must apologize for being so cantankerous, my dear. The stress of losing my son and the flare up of my asthma made me somewhat disagreeable.
ATHERTON
Don't apologize, Mr. Bierce. I thrive on disagreement.
BIERCE
Indisputable, Mrs. Atherton.
(They hear the whistle as the train approaches. Suddenly, Bierce seizes her in his arms and put his lips on hers. She doesn't struggle but she doesn't kiss him back. His mouth presses against hers but there's a hard resistance. Like stone. He stops and steps back.)
ATHERTON
(She throws back her head and laughs) The Almighty God Bierce! Master of style! The god on Olympus at whose feet pilgrims come to worship!
BIERCE
You're an outrage.
ATHERTON
Trying to kiss a woman by a pigsty.
BIERCE
You detestable little vixen.
ATHERTON
The Master.
(He grabs her by the arm and half drags her to the train platform. They get there
just as the locomotive pulls it, its wheels gnashing and grinding like Bierce's teeth.)
BIERCE
I never want to see you as long as you live.
ATHERTON
(She laughs some more)
BIERCE
I've had a horrible day. And you're the one who's made it horrible.
ATHERTON
Isn't that odd, Mr. Bierce. I've had a wonderful day. I've learned something about you.
BIERCE
What, pray?
ATHERTON
That the Master's human. And a pitiful human at that.
(She skips aboard the train and waves.)
Shall we stay in touch, Mr. Bierce?
LIGHTS DOWN
|
Ambrose Bierce on the Notion of God
Ambrose Bierce on Terrorism
Ambrose Bierce on Politics
Ambrose Bierce & Pancho Villa
The Wickedest Man in San Francisco, 1870
Love & Kisses: Bierce & Wilde
Bierce Duels with H.L. Mencken
Bierce & Jack London
Ambrose Bierce Resources on the Web
