| | 1 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Pierre, or, The ambiguities  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Dates, my old boy, bestir thyself now. Go to my room,
Dates, and bring me down my mahogany strong-box and lockup,
the thing covered with blue chintz; strap it very carefully,
my sweet Dates, it is rather heavy, and set it just without the
postern. Then back and bring me down my writing-desk, and
set that, too, just without the postern. Then back yet again,
and bring me down the old camp-bed (see that all the parts be
there), and bind the case well with a cord. Then go to the left
corner little drawer in my wardrobe, and thou wilt find my visiting-cards.
Tack one on the chest, and the desk, and the
camp-bed case. Then get all my clothes together, and pack
them in trunks (not forgetting the two old military cloaks,
my boy), and tack cards on them also, my good Dates. Then
fly round three times indefinitely, my good Dates, and wipe a
little of the perspiration off. And then—let me see—then, my
good Dates—why what then? Why, this much. Pick up all
papers of all sorts that may be lying round my chamber, and
see them burned. And then—have old White Hoof put to
the lightest farm-wagon, and send the chest, and the desk, and
the camp-bed, and the trunks to the `Black Swan,' where I
shall call for them, when I am ready, and not before, sweet
Dates. So God bless thee, my fine, old, imperturbable Dates,
and adieu! “The fine cut, the judicious fit of your productions
fill us with amazement. The fabric is excellent—the finest
broadcloth of genius. We have just started in business. Your
pantaloons—productions, we mean—have never yet been collected.
They should be published in the Library form. The
tailors—we mean the librarians, demand it. Your fame is
now in its finest nap. Now—before the gloss is off—now is
the time for the library form. We have recently received an
invoice of Chamois—Russia leather. The library form should
P
be a durable form. We respectfully offer to dress your amazing
productions in the library form. If you please, we will
transmit you a sample of the cloth—we mean a sample-page,
with a pattern of the leather. We are ready to give you one
tenth of the profits (less discount) for the privilege of arraying
your wonderful productions in the library form:—you cashing
the seamstresses'—printer's and binder's bills on the day of
publication. An answer at your earliest convenience will
greatly oblige,— “Sir: I approach you with unfeigned trepidation. For
though you are young in age, you are old in fame and ability.
I can not express to you my ardent admiration of your works;
nor can I but deeply regret that the productions of such graphic
descriptive power, should be unaccompanied by the humbler illustrative
labors of the designer. My services in this line are entirely
at your command. I need not say how proud I should
be, if this hint, on my part, however presuming, should induce
you to reply in terms upon which I could found the hope of
honoring myself and my profession by a few designs for the
works of the illustrious Glendinning. But the cursory mention
of your name here fills me with such swelling emotions, that I
can say nothing more. I would only add, however, that not
being at all connected with the Trade, my business situation
unpleasantly forces me to make cash down on delivery of each
design, the basis of all my professional arrangements. Your
noble soul, however, would disdain to suppose, that this sordid
necessity, in my merely business concerns, could ever impair— “Official duty and private inclination in this present
case most delightfully blend. What was the ardent desire
of my heart, has now by the action of the Committee on Lectures
become professionally obligatory upon me. As Chairman
of our Committee on Lectures, I hereby beg the privilege
of entreating that you will honor this Society by lecturing
before it on any subject you may choose, and at any day most
convenient to yourself. The subject of Human Destiny we
would respectfully suggest, without however at all wishing to
impede you in your own unbiased selection. “This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre
I feel stronger to-day; for to-day I have still more thought of
thine own superhuman, angelical strength; which so, has a
very little been transferred to me. Oh, Pierre, Pierre, with
what words shall I write thee now;—now, when still knowing
nothing, yet something of thy secret I, as a seer, suspect.
Grief,—deep, unspeakable grief, hath made me this seer. I
could murder myself, Pierre, when I think of my previous
blindness; but that only came from my swoon. It was horrible
and most murdersome; but now I see thou wert right in
being so instantaneous with me, and in never afterward writing
to me, Pierre; yes, now I see it, and adore thee the more. “Sir:—You are a swindler. Upon the pretense of writing
a popular novel for us, you have been receiving cash advances
from us, while passing through our press the sheets of a blasphemous
rhapsody, filched from the vile Atheists, Lucian and
Voltaire. Our great press of publication has hitherto prevented
our slightest inspection of our reader's proofs of your book.
Send not another sheet to us. Our bill for printing thus far,
and also for our cash advances, swindled out of us by you, is
now in the hands of our lawyer, who is instructed to proceed
with instant rigor. “Thou, Pierre Glendinning, art a villainous and perjured liar.
It is the sole object of this letter imprintedly to convey the
point blank lie to thee; that taken in at thy heart, it may be
thence pulsed with thy blood, throughout thy system. We
have let some interval pass inactive, to confirm and solidify our
hate. Separately, and together, we brand thee, in thy every
lung-cell, a liar;—liar, because that is the scornfullest and loathsomest
title for a man; which in itself is the compend of all infamous
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