Ambrose Bierce

Five Fables

 

 

At Heaven’s Gate

 

Having arisen from the tomb, a Woman presented herself at the gate of Heaven, and knocked with a trembling hand.

 

“Madam,” said Saint Peter, rising and approaching the wicket, “whence do you come?”

 

“From San Francisco,” replied the Woman, with embarrassment, as great beads of perspiration spangled her spiritual brow.

 

“Never mind, my good girl,” the Saint said, compassionately.  “Eternity is a long time; you can live that down.”

 

“But that, if you please, is not all.”  The Woman was growing more and more confused.  “I poisoned my husband.  I chopped up my babies.  I—”

 

“Ah,” said the Saint, with sudden austerity, “your confession suggests a very grave possibility.  Were you a member of the Women’s Press Association?”

 

The lady drew herself up and replied with warmth: “I was not.”

 

The gates of pearl and jasper swung back upon their golden hinges, making the most ravishing music, and the Saint, stepping aside, bowed low, saying: “Enter, then, into thine eternal rest.”

 

But the Woman hesitated.

 

“The poisoning—the chopping—the—the—” she stammered.

 

“Of no consequence, I assure you.  We are not going to be hard on a lady who did not belong to the Women’s Press Association.  Take a harp.”

 

“But I applied for membership—I was blackballed.”

 

“Take two harps.”

 

 

Fortune and the Fabulist

 

A Writer of Fables was passing through a lonely forest when he met a Fortune.  Greatly alarmed, he tried to climb a tree, but the Fortune pulled him down and bestowed itself upon him with cruel persistence.

 

“Why did you try to run away?” said the Fortune, when his struggles had ceased and his screams were stilled.  “Why do you glare at me so inhospitably?”

 

“I don’t know what you are,” replied the Writer of Fables, deeply disturbed.

 

“I am wealth; I am respectability,” the Fortune explained; “I am elegant houses, a yacht, and a clean shirt every day.  I am leisure, I am travel, wine, a shiny hat, and an unshiny coat.  I am enough to eat.”

 

“All right,” said the Writer of Fables, in a whisper; “but for goodness’ sake speak lower.”

 

“Why so?” the Fortune asked, in surprise.

 

“So as not to wake me,” replied the Writer of Fables, a holy calm brooding upon his beautiful face.

 

 

The Poet and the Editor

 

“My dear sir,” said the editor to the man, who had called to see about his poem, “I regret to say that owing to an unfortunate altercation in this office the greater part of your manuscript is illegible; a bottle of ink was upset upon it, blotting out all but the first line—that is to say—”

 

“‘The autumn leaves were falling, falling.’

 

“Unluckily, not having read the poem, I was unable to supply the incidents that followed; otherwise we could have given them in our own words.  If the news is not stale, and has not already appeared in the other papers, perhaps you will kindly relate what occurred, while I make notes of it.

 

“‘The autumn leaves were falling, falling,’

 

“Go on.”

 

“What!” said the poet, “do you expect me to reproduce the entire poem from memory?”

 

“Only the substance of it—just the leading facts.  We will add whatever is necessary in the way of amplification and embellishment.  It will detain you but a moment.

‘The autumn leaves were falling, falling—’ Now, then.”

 

There was a sound of a slow getting up and going away.  The chronicler of passing events sat through it, motionless, with suspended pen; and when the movement was complete Poesy was represented in that place by nothing but a warm spot on the wooden chair.

 

 

The Nightside of Character

 

A Gifted and Honourable Editor, who by practice of his profession had acquired wealth and distinction, applied to an Old Friend for the hand of his daughter in marriage.

 

“With all my heart, and God bless you!” said the Old Friend, grasping him by both hands.  “It is a greater honour than I had dared to hope for.”

 

“I knew what your answer would be,” replied the Gifted and Honourable Editor.  “And yet,” he added, with a sly smile, “I feel that I ought to give you as much knowledge of my character as I possess.  In this scrap-book is such testimony relating to my shady side, as I have within the past ten years been able to cut from the columns of my competitors in the business of elevating humanity to a higher plane of mind and morals—my ‘loathsome contemporaries.’”

 

Laying the book on a table, he withdrew in high spirits to make arrangements for the wedding.  Three days later he received the scrap-book from a messenger, with a note warning him never again to darken his Old Friend’s door.

 

“See!” the Gifted and Honourable Editor exclaimed, pointing to that injunction—“I am a painter and grainer!”

 

And he was led away to the Asylum for the Indiscreet.

 

 

A Revivalist Revived

 

A Revivalist who had fallen dead in the pulpit from too violent religious exercise was astonished to wake up in Hades.  He promptly sent for the Adversary of Souls and demanded his freedom, explaining that he was entirely orthodox, and had always led a pious and holy life.

 

“That is all very true,” said the Adversary, “but you taught by example that a verb should not agree with its subject in person and number, whereas the Good Book says that contention is worse than a dinner of herbs.  You also tried to release the objective case from its thraldom to the preposition, and it is written that servants should obey their masters.  You stay right here.”