On the sands where a blonde girl was stoppingTo the rescue of Jean she came hopping,Waved the hose in the air—And said "I don't care,If I do get my Snippsikins sopping."
On the sands where a blonde girl was stoppingTo the rescue of Jean she came hopping,Waved the hose in the air—And said "I don't care,If I do get my Snippsikins sopping."
"There," he said, "is an example of an anapæst. If a sprinkling can produce this, next time I will turn out an entire poem. There's nothing like water, and plenty of it, to make genius grow. Give Jean a saucer of cream.No skimmed milk for this." Mr. Saltus laughed and resumed, "You are the first feminine thing to face me and put me to rout—My hat's off to you."
I laughed at this, it seemed so ridiculous.
"Let me tell you a story," he went on. "There was before your day a prize-fighter,—a powerful fellow,—six feet of brawn. He could knock anyone into a cocked hat in the first round. Even his friends were rather afraid of him. One day a delegation of them went to his house to suggest a new fight. His wife was opposed to this. She wanted him to accompany her on a vacation. It was she who met the friends at the door, and told them definitely that her husband was going to take a rest and would not consider their offers. They turned away, but one of the party,—a Peeping Tom sort of a chap, crept back, and looked in through a crack in the shutters. What he saw was a revelation. The prize-fighter was emerging from under the bed. The frail scrap of a wife was standing in the centerof the room, with one slender finger upraised. Shaking this she said, 'Stay where you are till they are a safe distance off. I'll kill you if you come out before.'"
This story, whether he made it up or not, amused Mr. Saltus enormously, and when thereafter, entering into the spirit of it, I would put up a finger, it never failed to make him laugh like a boy. The playfulness which had been inhibited so long had full fling now, and he adored to have me pretend I was going to chastise him for something, declaring, as he afterward put in his copy, "When a woman ceases to quarrel with a man she ceases to love him." With his almost uncanny intuition he got the motive underlying every act.
It was during this spring that the framework on which Mr. Saltus afterward built "The Gardens of Aphrodite" grew. Much of it was written when sitting in the rose garden under a palm tree, the offending Jean purring at his feet. Notes on which he constructed "Oscar Wilde,—An Idler's Impression," were gatheredtogether as well, and reminiscences used in "Parnassians Personally Encountered" were jotted down and put into shape to use.
There was something soothing and yet stimulating in the song of the surf on the sands, reaching him as it did through the branches of acacia trees. In "the enchanted garden," as he called the small green handkerchief-like patch of grass, Mr. Saltus evolved, co-ordinated and put in shape the material from which he drew largely ever after.
A few weeks later he was en route for New York, to break up such home as he had there and return to the coast with his things, having decided to make California his home indefinitely. A ranch in the middle part of the State welcomed me. It was a heavenly spot,—no neighbors within miles, and plenty of animals and flowers for company.
From that ranch came two little creatures,—one particularly, destined to have a larger place and a greater influence in Mr. Saltus' life than most of the humans he encountered.Taken from their respective mothers at an age when their eyes were just open, so young that they had to learn to lap by nibbling my fingers dipped in milk, Fifi the kitten and Toto the shepherd dog puppy were annexed from a neighbor, and given to one ready to shield them with her life.
In the late summer these little ones with Auntie and myself were settled again. This time it was in a large house in Los Angeles with a delightful garden, situated in what was then the extreme upper limit of the city. Beyond it were vacant fields. Hollywood was in the distance. It was taken with a view to giving Mr. Saltus a bed-room with study adjoining in a wing of the house, off by itself, and shortly after we moved in, he joined us.
Mr. Saltus was not an easy, if an interesting man to keep house with. Ringing of the telephone sent him almost into hysterics. Trades people and servants talking under his windows incited him to murder.
The sound of a vacuum cleaner was the laststraw. Waving his arms like a dervish he would appear in working attire,—hair on end, light blue flannel shirt open at the neck, and make what I called a few "cursery remarks." Late in the afternoon only, when he left the house for his walk—he did not care what transpired during his absence—could the maid get in to make up his rooms. Even then he accepted it because he was compelled to submit. His study was as closely guarded as a Bluebeard's den. No one entered it—and no one wanted to, for cigar butts and ashes were the rose-leaves scenting his sanctum.
When working on a novel Mr. Saltus was living in another world. He knew where his things were, but no other, unless possessed of second sight, could have hazarded a guess. Under cigar butts, half burned cigarettes, piles of manuscripts, note-books and pencils, which were scattered all over the floor, anything might be hidden, and often was. Until he had finished a novel or other prolonged work, any attempt at clearing up would havebeen fatal, not only to himself but to the sanity of the one who did the cleaning. With the knowledge that most literary men were "litterers" the room was divested of anything which could be injured before it was turned over to him.
Unfitted for housekeeping both by temperament and inclination, and having none of the responsibility of it, I could look on and laugh. In later years the laugh was not quite as spontaneous.
In spite of the extreme untidiness of his study, Mr. Saltus was scrupulously particular about his person, changing his linen several times a day after a tub and a shower. In fussing over his linen he was almost as fearful as over losing his luggage or getting a disease. Whenever the laundryman was late in arriving he was sure that it was lost forever. His worry was not so much over replacing the things, as over the fact that to do so he must go into a shop. Linen and luggage fears arose from the same cause.
The laundry terror persisted also until the end of his life. All these peculiarities must have been trying to normal women. He recognized it himself fully, and used to say:—
"I'm a panicky pup, and I know it; and only a pampered puss could put up with me. If she should turn me out I'd go 'round and 'round in circles like a mad dog till some one took me to the pound and dropped me in the lethal chamber."
Deprived of pets as he had been during his childhood, Mr. Saltus responded to his new playmates in a surprising way, taking over their education, as he called it, from the first. Fifi was taken into the inner recesses of his study to serve as a paperweight. Rigging up a tight-rope in the garden, he taught her to walk on it, to stand on her hind legs, play ball and jump through a hoop.
When his eyes became tired with writing he amused himself hour after hour playing with his new toys. With his fancy for alliterations Fifi became "Pasy's pride and pleasure Puss." In the album of snapshots are many of "E—— and his angels," as I called them.
Then a sad thing happened. From eating some poisoned meat put out for gophers by a neighbor, both little creatures became violently ill, and in spite of the best doctors and care, Fifidied. I did not mourn alone. Mr. Saltus wept like a baby and could not write a word for days. Until the end of his life he kept referring to her, imitating the inflection of her miaws when deprived of sardines, of which she was inordinately fond.
After this the puppy came in for all the attention. During her recovery from the poison she was brought up to sleep on the foot of my bed,—a habit she saw fit never to change, for she slept there for the rest of her life.
With a patience little expected from him, Mr. Saltus taught her to run a yard or two in front of him so that he could watch her, and taught her to walk on her hind legs and various other accomplishments. With the training and understanding of her, the fear of dogs left him. He began to pat strange animals on their heads and take an interest in work in their behalf. The puppy, Toto, went with him for walks as soon as she was able to toddle on before him, but she usually returned in his arms.
The reason for entering so fully into his habits and association with this little being is because, like a thread of pure gold, she was woven into the fabric of his existence from the first, becoming at the last one of the most vital considerations of his life.
During a brief stay in Pasadena the year before, I had made the acquaintance of a Mr. and Mrs. Colville. The former was an exceptional character, combining the enthusiasm of a scholar and the erudition of a sage. He was a critic, a philosopher and a Theosophist. His wife was, and is, one of the noblest and most selfless beings on earth.
This acquaintance was passed on to Mr. Saltus. From the moment he saw them they exercised a profound influence on his life. Inclined as he was to take the tempo of his likes and dislikes from me, his immediate admiration for these two was exceptional. The occultism to which he had hitherto listened with rather indifferent ears took on new interest. He bought "The Ancient Wisdom," byAnnie Besant, the "Secret Doctrine," and a number of other Theosophical books. What was more, he studied them.
The little bungalow of the Colvilles in Pasadena became a kind of magnetic pole. To discuss higher metaphysics and occultism with the husband, and observe its practical application by his wife, constituted a treat. Mrs. Colville could tear Mr. Saltus to pieces. She could put her finger on the weak links in his character, suggesting methods by which they might be strengthened with unerring intuition. He not only accepted it with the simplicity of a child, but he thanked her for it. Never in his life had he met a woman of her kind before, and he loved her for her selflessness and the poise she radiated. His confidence and trust in her were such that on the day preceding his death he urged me to write to her and ask her to take him into her meditations. With all that may be said against Mr. Saltus by his critics, the fact of his not only recognizing, but immediately responding to spiritual greatnessjustified the confidence put in him by myself when a child. It proved beyond question, that with a different early environment and training, he would have developed the splendid qualities latent until the end of his life.
Work upon "The Monster" was under way at this time, and over his books Mr. Saltus was very much like a mother with her child. He might suggest that a novel of his own was full of flaws,—but woe to the outsider who ventured to criticise so much as a comma in its construction. It gave him perhaps the shock of his literary life, when, after a discussion, Mrs. Colville said to him:—
"You are a brilliant man,—an artist and a stylist. You are a poet, an historian and an essayist; but a novelist—never. Your psychology of humans is oblique, your plots improbable when not impossible, and your characters ink."
In moments of wrath I had flung the same words in his face and been told, "Ignorance, when it speaks, speaks loudly."
Instead of the explosion I expected, it took Mr. Saltus off his feet. He sat down. His affection and admiration for the Colvilles could not be called in question after that, and he began at once to take stock of himself seriously.
The lease of the house we were occupying having expired, another one on Grand View Street off Westlake Park was taken. The beauty of this little park, and the pleasure of sitting out under the palm trees, book in hand, Toto lying at his feet, soothed and relaxed Mr. Saltus amazingly. The idea of rewriting "The Monster" and weaving Theosophy into it suggested itself. Mrs. Besant spoke in Los Angeles at this time and we attended a private lecture. He heard her speak many times again in London in the Queen's Hall, but from that first glance he declared her to be in his estimation the most wonderful woman incarnate on earth to-day. "The Monster" was put aside in order that he might have more leisure to study Theosophy.
Mr. Saltus was now in his fifty-fifth year, andfor the first time he began to show symptoms of breaking. Extreme irritability with attacks of giddiness were followed by periods of depression. His Theosophical studies helped him to keep his poise. The physician who was consulted gave no cause for alarm. He said that Mr. Saltus was undergoing certain physiological changes and that he must abstain from prolonged mental work. A rough draft of "The Monster," including a certain amount of Theosophy, was in hand, so he said he would do no more creative work for a time.
That time was a long one. Mr. Saltus never did any entirely original work again. His creative faculty became semi-detached from his work in a desire to study. He wrote several novels after the lapse of years, but each of them was elaborated and improved from central situations he had used before either in novels or in short stories. In many of these, as in "Lords of the Ghostland," Mr. Saltus felt that he had not made the most of his material, and the desire to re-write, amplify and do justiceto the subject in a new and big way was tucked away in a corner of his mind. During the last years of his life, when the necessity for finding forgetfulness of the physical was paramount, the opportunity to use this material presented itself.
At the end of that summer we went on to Warner's Hot Springs. Mr. Saltus was left at loose ends, and he went to a hotel, hoping to join us again when we decided on a house for the winter.
While we were at the Hot Springs Mr. Saltus met a young girl, Miss S——. So weird, wild and fantastic are the stories which have been circulated about her, so malicious and untrue, that in justice to all, a plain statement of the facts is called for. It was during this stay at Warner's Hot Springs that a letter from Mr. Saltus referred to meeting a young girl. So seldom did he meet anyone sufficiently worth mentioning that I was interested. In the letter he said that he had been introduced to a girl, Miss S——, who reminded him very muchof myself. This was, he explained, not only because of her features but her nature, which was highly emotional, and that she adored animals to such a degree that I would find in her a kindred soul. I was much interested and wrote him that I would like to meet her.
Mr. Saltus' next letter was from San Francisco, where, at the request of the Examiner, he had gone to write up the Portola Festival. His next letter, however, was from Los Angeles again, giving the news that the Los Angeles Examiner had retained him to write a series of editorials to boom Southern California. Urging us to return, he said that he could not work without a background and was like a man without arms or legs. Telegrams and long distance telephone messages followed.
Soon afterward we took a house in Los Angeles again, centrally located in what was then a fashionable location in Pico Heights, and Mr. Saltus got to work at once. It was neither sustained nor creative like that of writing a novel. It consisted in compiling informationand statistics and presenting them in entertaining and acceptable form. The final draft of "The Monster" was done and ready for the typist. The compiling of material for two-page editorials each week kept him so occupied that his usual afternoon walks with Toto were shortened or neglected altogether. All his life he had walked a great deal. It was his way of keeping fit. With the physiological change in his constitution his desire to walk decreased, and the beginning of the breakdown began without either of us suspecting it. An inveterate smoker always, he then consumed almost twice as many cigarettes a day as before,—strong Cuban ones of the most insidious kind. This, too, was paving the way for the obscure and deadly disease which later gripped him like a vise.
Up to the time of going to California to live, Mr. Saltus' life had, in spite of its colourfulness, been more or less sad. There was a wistfulness in his eyes,—a reaching-out for something stronger than human ties to build on.The note-book to which I have previously referred, and which he compiled for writing "The Philosophy of Disenchantment" and "The Anatomy of Negation," was filled with quotations from the Gitâ. This meant something deeper than copy to him. Upon meeting Mr. and Mrs. Colville, the inner yearning which had been inhibited so long became suddenly objective, taking on the concrete form of study along esoteric lines.
All this time he was studying "The Secret Doctrine," going over each stanza slowly, thoughtfully, weighing each word and its meaning—searching for gold.
He burst into my room one day without knocking,—a thing he never omitted to do. I realized that only an internal earthquake could have caused such forgetfulness. Throwing a book into my lap, he sank into a chair and exclaimed:—
"Blind,—blind and conceited ass that I have been! All my life I have been searching fortruth. Now I have found it. Life's problems are over."
Taking the book from my hand he said:—
"Listen to this. 'Said the Flame to the spark, thou art myself,—my image and my shadow. I have clothed myself in thee,—and thou art my vahan, until the day be with us, when thou shalt re-become myself,—and others thyself,—and me.'"
He read the stanza three times very slowly, his emotion so intense that tears stood in his eyes. At that moment he touched the highest pinnacle of his life. It was his Mount of Transfiguration. As soon as he was sufficiently master of himself to speak, he said:—
"Let me send your name and my own this very day to Adyar to join the Theosophical Society?"
I had never been affiliated with organizations or cults,—my understanding of the occult having been more or less born with me and intuitive rather than academic; but, delighted at theunfolding of his higher nature, I agreed at once to his suggestion.
He saturated himself with Theosophy as one might with a disinfectant after long exposure to infection. From that hour he was another being; his perception of values and his attitude toward life became readjusted. The polarity of his angle on everything shifted, and the axis of his being, responding to the change, swung back to its real home. It was like melting the ice of Spitzbergen and restoring to it the tropical beauty and verdure it once enjoyed. In this way Mr. Saltus became imbued with the magnitude of his discovery—or rather his recovery of it.
It has been said by his critics, that, in becoming a Theosophist, Mr. Saltus stepped down from the Olympian heights, became mundane, and did not, as I have suggested, ascend the Mount of Transfiguration. Constructive criticism of any description is helpful, but it is open to question whether or not this touches the crux of the matter. The fact that his imaginativefaculty became somewhat transmuted into channels not wholly literary, gives critics this chance.
It has been said that I persuaded him to become a Theosophist. Nothing is further from the truth, for, while I believed much that is called Theosophy, I had scarcely dipped into a book on it, and our chats on these lines had been more or less personal, one saying to the other, "Perhaps we were brother and sister or twins in our last life," suggesting various amusing combinations of relationship.
I never tried to persuade him to accept anything. It would have been not only foolish and futile, but would have defeated its purpose.
Though his acceptance of it came suddenly, it was the culmination of remote causes, too deep for either his critics or his friends to see.
It has been said also of Tolstoi that when he turned to religion he turned from greatness. This may be true in a sense. It resolves itself into the question "What is greatness?" That Mr. Saltus' keen interest in occultism over-shadowedand coloured every act and thought of his life thereafter, is undeniably true; but what it took from him in one sense it gave to him in another. It gave him what he had been unconsciously seeking,—the ability to build up a series of sequences in his mind, and in the acceptance of them to find peace. Peace and progress were his pole stars. Who can say how little or how great are such objectives? If any change took place in his creative potentialities, it was because he deliberately allowed it.
From that hour a new world opened before his eyes, a world of endless vistas,—of delightful study and research,—of new thinking, reconstruction and regeneration, Mr. Saltus' one lament being:—
"Why has it taken me so long?"
Destroying the finished copy of "The Monster," he set about rewriting it entirely from his new viewpoint, and thereafter until the day of his death he wrote nothing untinged by the philosophy that had become an essential part of his consciousness.
This new and complete distraction was a godsend, for Mr. Saltus was far from well and he was inclined to be terrified over the least symptom of anything out of the common. Abstract reading and study took him out of himself and bridged many an hour with pleasure and profit.
Coming in the house one day Mr. Saltus said:—
"When I was down-town I charged a box of sweets on your bill."
"Did you?" I replied. "Since when have you developed the taste?" Puddings and candies of any kind he had always avoided.
"They were not for myself but for the young girl, Miss S——, I wrote you about. She is now connected with the Library and I see quite a little of her, for I go there often to get books and collect data for my articles. Having been educated abroad she speaks French like a native, and being unusually intelligent she has helped me a great deal."
Occupied as I was at the time with organizinga theatrical entertainment for the benefit of The Los Angeles Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,—having to see and secure all the talent, I put off an invitation to bring her to the house for tea or to dine until the affair was over. Unfortunate omission! More unfortunate yet was my remark:—
"Remember Dorothy S——."
That was an episode Mr. Saltus wanted least of all to be reminded of. It sealed his lips more effectually than cement. When a few weeks later I inquired about his friend, he said that she had moved and that he had no idea what had become of her. Moved she had, but only a block or two. Once again his inability to face anything holding the remotest possibility of unpleasantness tangled him in an unnecessary deception.
During the holidays a telegram announcing the death of Mrs. Saltus in Paris reached him. This was only a few days before the preliminary papers in the divorce were to be issued.
In all justice to Mr. Saltus it must be saidthat he sincerely regretted the final separation came this way. It hit him between the eyes. From his new angle on life,—his belief that, reincarnation being a necessity, he must meet every ego he had in any way wronged and pay his debt to each, appalled him. However much he had attempted to justify himself in the past he did so no longer. The sudden passing over of one so closely connected with his early life—to whom he realized that he had never been all that he should—struck home. He went about the house softly and silently, passages of the Gitâ penetrating him like flame and steel.
His first impulse was to go East to meet his young daughter upon her return from abroad. The memory of her had become a beautiful dream to him. From that dream he was most anxious to awake and enjoy the reality. Her mother's wishes had been very explicit in the matter. She left the little girl to the guardianship of an aunt, with provisions in her will calculated to curtail the young girl's best interestsin case her father took her. Over and over we thrashed the matter out between us. He had the law of the land on his side.
Persuaded at last that the only restitution he could make the mother for anything she had endured because of him, was through the child, he wrote his daughter asking her desire in the matter. Upon her replying that she wanted to carry out her mother's wishes, much against his will, Mr. Saltus yielded.
There was another thing he yielded also. Against my firm refusal to go to the altar or the courthouse until a proper time elapsed, he talked in vain.
"Contending with you is like biting into granite," he said with annoyance, "and my poor teeth are being worn away."
"It is harder to be the granite," I told him. "I would be so much happier transformed into pliable putty."
"Why not try it for a pleasant change?" he inquired.
"Because, for your sake, I cannot. You arenot granite to me,—you are a piece of marble out of which I am trying with chisel in my hand to release the something concealed there."
"Your chisel is sharp and the process is a painful one."
"So it is," I admitted, "and I do not know to which of us it is the more so. Shall I put it down and rest?"
Mr. Saltus smiled.
"No, little Puss. You are the instrument of karma. Keep on chiseling. You believe in me, and if you think there is something worth while, awaiting release—do not falter. Only the one who sees it can set it free."
Made irritable by the state of his health, accentuated by the delay in his plans, Mr. Saltus was in a mood to fly off at a fleabite. One does not realize the underlying cause of things at the time they occur. It takes perspective to throw them into relief.
Los Angeles, which never does anything by halves or in a small way, was undergoing one of its periodical hydrophobia scares. As a matter of fact, this disease is almost non-existent in the State of California. No matter about that. Some poor half-starved, beaten and abused animal driven to extremity had turned in self-protection upon a tormentor, and the cry went up that a mad dog had bitten a child. That was enough. The papers, always on the lookout for a sensation, took it up, piling on the agony, till in twenty-four hours they had created a monster out of a myth.
Results showed how slight after all has been man's evolution from ignorance and brutality. All unmuzzled dogs were ordered to be shot in the streets on sight. Civilised England would believe such a thing possible in equatorial Africa only. Protests were powerless. The people having been worked into a frenzy of fear, it was not easily allayed. What followed is too harrowing to be told. Had a few fanatical humans, and the owners of the unmuzzled dogs been put painlessly and permanently out of the way, real justice would have been served. Our Toto, guarded every moment night and day, was the exception. The incinerators were kept working all the time disposing of the innocent and helpless victims of madmen.
Because of these conditions several stray dogs were given temporary shelter under my roof, and kept on a veranda giving off of my bed-room, situated on the second floor. A passing policeman could not reach up to them and they could wag their tails in safety.
How it happened, if ever known, I have forgotten,—butit happened. One of the dogs, a bull-terrier, managing to slip from the veranda and through my bed-room to the hall, went down stairs on an exploring expedition. Coming in that evening with his latch-key Mr. Saltus met the dog at the front door. The animal, grateful for food and protection, came forward to take a sniff of the intruder and ask his intentions. Had Mr. Saltus spoken to him and gone on naturally, as one belonging there should have done, there would have been no trouble. His old fear of dogs gaining momentary ascendency, combined unfortunately with his annoyance at having so much attention diverted from himself. Without a word he gave the dog a kick. According to canine philosophy a man having the right to be there would not have done such a thing. That act settled his status. The terrier caught him by the leg and made his protest felt, in his desire to protect the one who had rescued him.
There was no uncertainty of Mr. Saltus'intentions then. Screaming and cursing, he tore up to my sitting-room.
"One of your damned dogs has taken a slice out of my leg."
The story of the dog and his deviltry was told between vituperations. He was done for. Hydrophobia was sure to develop before morning. The dog must be sent to the pound at once. As I have said before, there could be no half way in dealing with Mr. Saltus. Had he been sympathized with in the least, it would have been fatal. It was a nerve-racking affair. Useless was the attempt to put it to him from any angle other than his own. Not only had he been badly lacerated, but outrageously treated by me in that his demands were not immediately acted upon. Refusal to see in him a martyr, piled faggots on the flame of his wrath, and vowing that either the dog or himself should leave the house that night, he threw the challenge in my face.
There was no need to repeat it. A telephone was on the table near my hand. I calleda taxi, telling them to be at the house in half an hour. After that inferno was let loose. Nothing more outrageous was included in the annals of crime.
"Here I am,—growing grey in your service,—turned into the street. I am an IT,—a THING,—my individuality has been submerged. You have grafted all your ideas upon me, moulding me into your likeness. I am not allowed to think."
"If you are moulded in my image it's a devilish botch I have made of it. Had you been moulded into something human a little earlier in life, you could not have wrecked existence for the two women rash enough to take your name. I have escaped with my sanity,—thank God. Now go."
Storming and swearing at the way he was abused, Mr. Saltus disappeared, returning after fifteen minutes with a suitcase in either hand. The dogs sat in a row to watch him go.
"I'll come back for my trunks and my booksto-morrow," he told me, "and I would like to know your plans for the future."
"Inasmuch as they no longer include yourself they cannot interest you," I said. "When you leave this house you leave my life forever."
It was hard to say that to one who, however inflammable and vituperative on the surface, was at heart only a very much spoiled and frightened little boy, long accustomed to giving orders and carrying things with a high hand. A reversal of the order took him out of his bearings. Only a profound understanding of his nature made the success of the experiment possible.
Slamming the door behind him he left the sitting room and went down stairs. The taxi was waiting. Reaching the garden he turned to look back at the house, only to see the shades drawn down, the lights in my sitting room go out, and hear my voice through the French windows saying:—
"Come, my lambs! Come, Toto! You are all that I have in this wicked world."
After that there was silence. Then came a hum of voices from outside and the taxi drove off. With a fair certainty of what the dénouement would be, I kept on a wrapper and lay down on the sofa to rest. Nearly an hour passed. Then the dogs on the veranda began to bark. This said volumes. It said in dog language that some one was entering the house. Soon after there was a creaking noise in the hall. Then silence again. Sniffing a friend, Toto, who slept in my room, went to the door and whined.
"Come back," I called; "there must be a burglar in the house. I will telephone to the police."
After that announcement there came a gentle tap on the door, and a voice whispered:—
"Please let me in for a moment. I want to speak to you once more."
Switching on the lights I opened the door, and Mr. Saltus came in.
"Forgive me, little girl," he said. "I'm a devil. I'm all you say I am, but I have notwrecked your life, Mowgy. If I am less to you than a dog you never saw till yesterday I have failed,—totally failed. All the same I have never wanted anything but to see you smile. Try me again."
By that time there were two of us weeping, with Toto jumping up upon us licking our hands; taking on, as she did, our vibrations as might a delicately constructed instrument.
The following day I went to Mr. Saltus and said:—
"I'm dreadfully sorry over what occurred last night, and while there is no possible danger I want you to have your wound attended to."
"Don't worry over that," he said. "I had it cauterized this morning. Anyway, it did its work. That poor dog was trying to protect the house. He and I are on the same job and we will make friends."
They made up, and to such an extent that when after a few days a home was found forthe stray, Mr. Saltus had to be persuaded to let him go.
Neither Mr. Saltus nor those nearest to him realized that his nervous system was undergoing a change. Had this been recognized, the episode which followed would in all probability never have occurred. Mention of it is made because a great deal was said about it at the time, it being given out that Mr. Saltus had tried to kill me. This episode, unpleasant as it is, marked the last time that he ever lost control of himself.
It began in the dining-room after dinner while Mr. Saltus was enjoying his usual cigar. Some chance remark,—a hasty answer, more fuel, and the fuse was fired. Once again he was an It,—a Thing,—a submergedentity, deprived of his child and acting as a nursemaid to dogs. The more I tried to soothe him the more vehement he became. Distressed beyond words Auntie left the room and went upstairs, declaring that she would pack her things and leave the house the next morning, and that wecould fight it out and find each other out,—she was done. Repeated efforts to calm him had only the contrary effect. To leave him alone for a time seemed the only solution. Picking up the leash to fasten it to Toto's collar, with the idea of going for a walk while Mr. Saltus cooled down, was misunderstood by him. Seizing a carving knife from the serving table, and pulling the leash suddenly out of my hands, he dragged Toto behind him into the butler's pantry and locked the door. It was the cook's evening off. From his place of security he announced that he was going to cut Toto's throat and then his own. Turning on a faucet so that the water would trickle ever so slightly and suggest the dripping of blood, he became silent.
Had I argued or pleaded with him one cannot know what the result would have been. Silence on my part,—silence absolute and unbroken,—was the only course. A more horrible half-hour than that, Dante and Goya together could not have imagined. At the endof that time the door opened and Mr. Saltus, with Toto wagging her tail behind him, reappeared. Relief at knowing that a tragedy was averted was such that I could only sink into a seat. Thereupon, possibly because I had said nothing, Mr. Saltus picked up tumblers and decanters from the sideboard and smashed them against the walls like so many eggshells, still vowing that he was going to kill himself. While in the pantry he had, instead of cutting his throat, consumed a whole bottle of gin. That strengthened his arm and his courage.
To leave him in such a condition would have been brutal. To remain was hazardous, for he brandished the knife and went on screaming. The night wore on, and the effects of the gin began to change their character. Deciding the time had come for a determined stand, I went up to him, and took the knife out of his hand. In his amazement at my effrontery he offered little resistance, although he still screamed of his wrongs. It was no time to argue. Neighbours hearing the racket telephonedto the police that a lunatic was in the house and was trying to kill some one. An officer was sent to the door to inquire. That had a sobering effect. Kicking the broken glass out of his way Mr. Saltus finally decided to go to his room. By this time the sun was rising (not setting) upon his wrath.
At noon I went to consult our friend Dr. Hazeldine, a metaphysician as well as a physician, and he returned with me to the house. Mr. Saltus, he said, was in a very critical condition. Unable to eat, thrashing about in his bed like a spirit in torture, he presented a tragic picture, and the doctor decided to remain at the house until he could bring him around. This he did; but when the bringing was accomplished, bag, baggage and dog, I left the house, and saying "Good-bye forever," went down to San Diego.
That was more effectual than the visit of the police had been, knowing as he did that threats were not in my line. Letters and telegrams followed like shadows of sin. They wereanswered, but in no way to offer encouragement. Clearly and firmly he was told that his conduct justified much that had been said against him, and though two women had escaped with their lives and sanity a third would be walking into a padded cell and taking on a life sentence voluntarily.
The reaction on Mr. Saltus was serious. He became really ill and his letters frantic. A novice still in Theosophy, accepting its theory of life, but ignoring its personal application, this lapse of his acted like an auger. It cut its way into the center of his consciousness, and in the realization of his failure, there was stimulated the dormant aspiration to re-create himself. A page from one of his letters is indicative of this:
"....De profundis clamavi.Don't make me die insane. In writing to you I have said everything that a human being can. If there was an assurance unexpressed it was through no fault of mine. Your answer was that your faith in me is shattered. I once said that if youhad a child by a negro I would forgive you and console you too. Yet your faith in me is shattered. Child——child,—you are not to blame. If after all my love and care of you, you could write me that, it is because I have in the past betrayed the faith of other people. No,—you are not to blame. You are my own hands striking me in the face. As I measured it to others it is meted now to me. I may be your cross but you are crucified to me, and death alone can tear the nails from your hands. Even then it will leave the stigmata."
It was a difficult situation to cope with, for what he said was quite true. The ties which bind one to another are spun out of threads like cobwebs,—so gossamer in texture, so frail and unsubstantial, that they seem a thing one can brush aside with a touch. They are so fine,—they appear to have emerged from nothing,—a memory, an incident, a sorrow shared and forgotten,—but they persist. Delicate as they are, they are spun from the center of one's being. Turned, twisted and plaitedby the hand of fate, they become cables of steel. Reason may tell one they can be broken, but the soul knows better. Nothing in life can tear them completely asunder.
It was one of these frail threads which held now. Stronger ones by far, fashioned during the years, were there, but they fell apart. It was the frailest one which persisted. On the walls of memory was a picture. It was that of a man sitting on the top of a 'bus, sad and silent at the thought of returning to the States in a few days. It was early evening and we were going out to the extreme end of London,—Muswell Hill,—to compel distraction from the thoughts which pressed upon him from all sides. The 'bus was crowded, and we could not get a seat together. Mr. Saltus' however was directly behind my own, so we could talk to one another. Going up the hill toward Islington the 'bus swayed a bit, and I found myself swinging from side to side. In so doing a slight pull seemed to come from behind. Looking down I saw that Mr. Saltus was leaning forwardand holding a piece of my frock in his hands. He was unaware that I noticed it, nor did we ever refer to it later. It was such a little thing. Nothing worth speaking about, but it was his hand on the fold of my frock that held,—had held during the years, and held now.
When he wired that he was following to San Diego I was silent and let him come. It was then he realized how totally alone he was in the world, and how dependent also. My home was broken up and we were both wanderers. Though we were living at different hotels and I refused to discuss the matter with him, Mr. Saltus' conversation was directed to me through Toto.
"Come here, Toto," he said. "I didn't really hurt you, did I? I'm not always a devil. I have intervals of goodness. Go 'woof, woof' to Mummy and tell her I will go and die if she throws me into the ashcan."
This was followed by a series of "wows" and the remark:
"Don't give Snippsy up to the dog-catchers.Snippsy likes to be a subordinate entity. He isn't happy otherwise."
He was miserable and sincere, but self-preservation is a difficult thing to fight. The upshot of it was that Mr. Saltus agreed to go East for a month or two, leaving me in California to get my nerves in shape again. He was on probation, or, as he expressed it, "saved from the pound."
It was horrible to see him go, and yet we both needed perspective, being too excited to act or even think sanely, as the episode over Toto had made clear. Two highly temperamental people, no matter how devoted to one another, act and react at times to their mutual disadvantage.
Standing beside the Los Angeles Limited, which was to take him back via Chicago, Mr. Saltus slipped an envelope in my hand. Upon opening it a letter enclosing a poem fell out. That poem, under the title of "My Hand in Yours," was published later.
As Mr. Saltus discovered on the train, ourminds had been working along similar lines, for I had slipped letters in various pockets in his coats and others in satchels, to cheer him at intervals on the return trip.
To New York Mr. Saltus went, returning to San Diego in less than three months. He was still thin and nervous and had done no writing at all. In the interval, the penetrating influence of his philosophy had done its work, and he was taking the matter of his own evolution seriously. Allusions to Jean or the incident of the broken glass, were like burning raw flesh.
It was mid-winter when he returned, but no one would have suspected it from the June-like sunshine and roses. Taking long walks with Toto, with whom he loved to play hide-and-seek, he would go off for hours, resting in Balboa Park on the return trip.
In speaking of this afterward to Miss G——, she said that Mr. Saltus had looked so ill upon his return to New York that she thought he was in for a nervous breakdown. In the circumstances, the peace and quiet of San Diego were very restful to him.
Then the question of the future presented itself again, and he asked:—
"When are you going to absorb me?" That was the way he jestingly put it. And then he asked:—
"Where shall we live?"
"California or London," I told him. "If one could combine the attractions of the two,—the climate of the former and the culture and comfort of the latter, heaven would not seem so vague a place. Take your choice, but New York—jamais!"
Mr. Saltus hated New York also,—hated clubs, although one had been more or less his headquarters for years. The old members of it were all dead, and he was not a man to make new friends. Barring the convenience of a club it was a horror to him. It was then agreed that he should return to the East, arrange his affairs and meet me in Montreal, where we would take the leap into matrimony and sail to England direct.
An incident occurred toward the end ofMarch, shortly before Mr. Saltus left for New York, which indicated, more than anything else, how radical had been the change in him. We were invited for tea at the home of a friend, Mrs. Butler. As her home was at a distance from the center of the city it was decided that I should take a trolley, while for the benefit of the exercise, Mr. Saltus would walk with Toto. Before separating however, he accompanied me to the fifth floor of a shop, where I made a few purchases. Reaching the street I left him with the assurance that he would rejoin me again in twenty minutes at Mrs. Butler's house. Toto, as usual, was a few feet in front of us, and, as it afterward developed, was unaware of the exact spot where we divided forces. It was over in a minute. I jumped into a trolley and disappeared.
Mrs. Butler's was reached. The twenty minutes doubled and redoubled, yet look as one might no sign of man or dog could be seen. That something had happened,—to the dog most likely,—seemed probable. It was a tensewaiting. The rapid twilight of the south was closing like a fan, when, silhouetted against the distant skyline, a pygmy, preceded by an animated dot, developed into a man and a dog.
It was a tale with no wag that he poured into my ears.
"When you left and jumped into the trolley," he said, "I became suddenly aware that I was alone. Toto had vanished. Inquiries were futile and fruitless. No one had seen her. She appeared to have dematerialized in a flash. I went to both the hotels and to all the places where we were in the habit of stopping. The result was the same."
"And what then?"
"I stood in the middle of the street and wowed. I was sure that Totesy Babe had been killed or stolen. It was horrible. I could not face you alive."
It would have taken courage without a doubt.
"What did you decide to do,—run away?"
"No,—I thought of that, but to run, meantout of your life. To return without Toto would amount to the same thing. It was a case of 'Which way I fly is hell.... Infinite wrath and infinite despair.' There was no alternative but the Bay for me. Living, even if I remained in your life, Toto would have stood forever between us. Dead, you would think kindly of me and mourn for me also. It was the lesser evil."
"And then?"
"It seemed too bad to be true. A last hope remained. Returning to Marston's where we had separated, I questioned the door man. Yes, he had seen a black and white dog going in alone over an hour ago. The elevator man came next. He had let a dog off at the fifth floor, supposing she accompanied a customer. The mystery became less opaque. Toto was sitting under the counter where she had seen you last. The shop was closing and the assistants were puzzled what to do, as she refused to move and bared her teeth when any one came near her."
There was no faking his seriousness. Mr. Saltus was in a state of collapse. The way he reacted to this episode made whole the broken glass, and put a sponge over the incident forever.
In a week or so, arrangements being made for us to meet and be married in Montreal, he returned to the East. The Montreal idea had merits. As we had decided to live under British laws it was as well to be married under them. Mr. Saltus' former matrimonial knots had been tied in New York and Paris. He wanted to try a new place for luck. Owing to his divorce from Helen Read he could not be married in New York State in any event. Besides, he wanted to avoid a thing which loomed like a menacing monster in his path,—publicity. The newspapers had been none too lenient over his first offense. With the attempt to secure a divorce from his second wife, all the past had been resurrected and flung in his face in none too complimentary a way. His imagination visualized the headlines over athird marriage. "Saltus Lures Third Victim to the Altar." "Bluebeard Put to Blush." "At the Close of a Misspent Life Saltus Takes Third Wife to Nurse Him in His Declining and Reclining Years."
Spring merged into summer. Letters from Mr. Saltus, then in New York, inquiring when we should meet in Montreal, suggested also that we should sail from there direct to England.
An incident occurring at this time was so vital and far-reaching in my estimation that an indefinite postponement of our marriage seemed the only solution. I wrote him to that effect,—wrote also that I contemplated a trip to China and the far East. This was not done on impulse or in anger, and knowing that I was not given to threats, and that my reasons were substantial, Mr. Saltus took it like a death-blow. Four days journey apart, he was powerless to get to me before I could carry it into effect.
Telegrams stormed in. Though upsettingin the extreme, they were unanswered. Self-preservation lifting its head again, suggested retreat. It was a mirage however. A preservation excluding him would have been momentary only, for wherever I might hide I knew he would find me if he spent his life in the search. The hand holding the fold of my frock held it still. His last telegram, so characteristic that it is given here, broke down my resistance:—