Miss Marie Giles,The Woodward, Los Angeles,California.Am wiring fifth time. If you have any affection for Snipps don't let it be in vain. Try send some helpful message, only send it quick. If not Snipps goes under. This is the last despairful cry of love and grief eternal. God bless you little girl.E.
Miss Marie Giles,The Woodward, Los Angeles,California.
Am wiring fifth time. If you have any affection for Snipps don't let it be in vain. Try send some helpful message, only send it quick. If not Snipps goes under. This is the last despairful cry of love and grief eternal. God bless you little girl.
E.
Fac-simile of Telegram sent to Marie SaltusFac-simile of Telegram sent to Marie Saltus
That broke me up entirely. A wire that I would start for Montreal at a certain date, was followed by my arrival there. Mr. Saltus was at the station. He was still thin but looking better. With a foresight scarcely to be expected he had arranged everything for our accommodation at the Windsor Hotel, dog included, and an application had been sent to the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries to take Toto into England. Over the details of our marriage however he had struck a snag. It was our desire to have the ceremony performed in the Roman Catholic Church, a form in which I had been educated. The ritual of the Church appealed very strongly to Mr. Saltus, as he believed it contained not only all the beauty and mysticism of the ancient mysteries but to his mind all the beauty and truth of Christianity as well. Owing to technicalities over his first marriage, and some uncertainty regarding baptism, this was found to be impossible. It was a severe disappointment to us both. A civil marriage was then decided upon. That, too, was out of the question. The Province of Quebec being under ecclesiastical law,we appeared to have struck an impasse, and a trip to Toronto seemed inevitable.
It was the middle of August and the heat was frightful. I told Mr. Saltus to make any arrangements he pleased provided I did not have to run around myself.
The following day he came up to me in Dominion Square, where I was sitting for a breath of air, reading a detective story, with Toto lying at my feet.
"Come along,—we are going to get married," he said, "and we have only time to walk to the church comfortably."
Mr. Saltus was never behindhand when he had decided to go anywhere. When starting to catch a train one could be sure that an hour at least would be spent at the station, while he walked restlessly to and fro fuming at the slowness of the clock.
"Let me go to the hotel to change my frock, and get rid of this detective story," I said.
"Change nothing. Come along as you are. You can put on all the frills after you cremateme,—if you have the courage to try it again."
He began pulling on my arm. It was nothing if not casual. After all, Toto was not concerned over our looks, and there was no one else but the clergyman, to whom we were complete strangers. Up Dorchester Street we sauntered. We were half an hour ahead of time as it was. Mr. Saltus fumbled in his pocket and brought out a ring. That was the most amusing and least expected part of it all. Time and again he had expressed himself on the subject of wedding rings with scorn. To him they appeared to be symbols of eternity between people for whom an eternity of misunderstanding was at that moment beginning. His views were my own. No symbol of servitude would, I had often remarked, weigh down a finger of mine. He handed it to me in silence, and in silence I looked at it, an unobtrusively thin band of gold with our initials, and the date and the word "Eternamente" inside. Smiling, I returned it and said nothing.
"It's going to hurt me cruelly if you won't wear it," he said at last. "I know I have made fun of such things, but this is my last wedding, and this is different. It means something more than I supposed a marriage could." He broke off and inquired, "By the way, what are you going to do with Babe when we get to the church?"
Toto was trotting along a few feet in front of us.
"Take her to the wedding, of course. She can sit between us."
"However lightly you may be taking this, it's a serious affair to me," he said, "and much as I love her I don't think it the thing to take a dog into a church."
"What isn't the thing for her isn't the thing for me, either," he was told. "You can have both of us, or neither. Speak up."
We walked on a bit, and then looking at each other we began to laugh.
"I'll put on your symbol of servitude andBabe goes to our wedding,—what do you say?"
"Right-O," Mr. Saltus agreed with a laugh. "It's the usual thing,—a mother accepting life-long punishment for the sake of her child."
We were at the door of the church then. Dr. Scott, who was substituting that summer at the American Presbyterian Church, met us with his witnesses, and giving the dog even a more cordial welcome than ourselves, performed a brief ceremony. Only when it was over did we realize that the detective story was still in my hand. It is to be hoped that Dr. Scott believed it a prayer book.
Unexpected events rearranged our plans. We did not sail from Montreal, but six weeks later I went from New York, and Mr. Saltus joined me in London in January. Thereafter during the next two years Mr. Saltus crossed and recrossed the ocean as if it were a ferry, living in an apartment hotel when in New York and when in London wherever I happened to be stopping.
It was in the spring of 1914 when upon returning from a winter in Algeria and joining Mr. Saltus on the return route, I agreed to try the experiment of housekeeping. A maisonette in Nevile Street, Onslow Gardens, was the result of our search. For two such absent-minded and non-observing people, impatient of petty details, to attempt anything practical was braver than wise. English servants do not venture suggestions unasked. There were meals when I remembered to order them. Sometimes there was too much, and more often nothing at all. On these occasions it was convenient to live between the Brompton and Fulham Roads. I was always apologetic and distressed when we had to go out for a meal, but Mr. Saltus' remarks were invariably the same:—
"I hate practical women. Any fool can feed my body. I never expected you to develop into a housekeeper and I would hate you if you did. Smile and be yourself."
There are not many men who would saythat—on an empty stomach. A cook-housekeeper came to our rescue at last. Mr. Saltus was writing a series of articles for Harper's Bazaar at the time,—ultra-feminist articles. They were called "The Reflections of Floraline Schopenhauer." The writing of them amused and interested him very much. It was not creative work. It was a new figure on which to drape the ideas, witticisms and epigrams he had stored up in a note-book; and they were amazingly clever. In discussing them and women in general, I remembered his friend of the Los Angeles days and said:
"Did you never hear what became of that clever girl? It's queer that you lost all track of her."
"No," he said, "I believe she went to France to live."
The subject dropped there. With his obsessing fear of the possibility of unpleasantness, added to the memory that he had denied all knowledge of her when in San Diego, he would not, or could not, face the fact—simpleenough if he had not complicated it for himself—that the friendship had continued. He might have told me that he had seen her again in New York and coached her a bit in writing, where, with her clever pen and unusual ability, she had forged ahead into a position of great responsibility.
Having once more the comfortable background of a home, Mr. Saltus took up his studies in occultism, spending hours in the Theosophical Library in Tavistock Square poring over the "Pistis Sophia." That again opened up vistas and visions of a far-reaching character. From the Theosophical Headquarters it was but a step to the British Museum, and the holy of holies where rare books are loaned to responsible students within the enclosure. This spot was always the Mecca toward which Mr. Saltus gravitated.
Leaving our apartment about eleven o'clock each morning, he would take a 'bus to Piccadilly Circus, and walk the rest of the way to Museum Street. On the return trip he walkedall the way, trying to get in better physical trim through exercise.
Coming home one day he made the first allusion to the twinges in his legs which increased rapidly in both inconvenience and pain.
"I'm getting to be a good-for-nothing old scoundrel," he announced at dinner one night. "I, who used to walk from Los Angeles to Hollywood with ease, am in for something. I cannot understand what causes the pain and discomfort in my legs. I'm ready for the ashcan. You will never get a hat for me."
"Don't you believe it. If you have any fears concerning your value I will get up a sale and auction you off."
"I don't want to be auctioned off. Men are scarce in England and a fat woman might bid me in. Even if you want to get rid of me, Babe wants me."
"Neither you nor Babe need distress yourselves. Your absence will not be prolonged. The fat woman will drop you back on thedoor-step as damaged goods and I can auction you off all over again. It will be an endless procedure."
Joking with me was a diversion that Mr. Saltus loved. We were always living with imaginary people concerning whom he would ask hypothetical questions. One was as follows:—
"What would you do if a fat woman came in with a bag in her hand, and tried to put me in it and take me away?"
"'Madame,' I would say, 'if you are trying to steal my little Snippsy, let me assure you, that though men may be scarce, hats are more so. A smart autumn model in exchange is my price.'"
At that Mr. Saltus would exclaim:—
"I would not go. I would scream and bite her, and she would be glad to let me drop."
"Not at all," I always replied, "for I would tell her that you have been expecting hydrophobia all these years and it has at last shownitself. Then she would carry you off to the lethal chamber with all speed."
That remark always called forth a series of "Wows" in various keys. This story with variations was gone over and over, and as a rule was followed by one from me. Mr. Saltus was disappointed when it was not.
"What would you do," I asked, "if, upon going into your study you found a giant elemental sitting at your desk tampering with your copy?"
Woe to the typist who had the temerity to change even a comma in Mr. Saltus' work. It was enough to incite him to murder.
"I would go mad,—seize the elemental and my vibrations alone would tear him to atoms."
"But suppose he was an all-powerful elemental,—a black magician, and he said that he was going to edit everything you wrote in the future?"
"Then," Mr. Saltus always said, "I would rush to the window, open it and jump out into the fourth dimension in the akasha."
The episode of the elemental ended there till the next telling. So much of Mr. Saltus' life had been sad and unsatisfying that the desire to dip for a time into make-believe was soothing and diverting to him. It was a region in which we spent many an hour.
During his stay in London, a year before, Mr. Saltus had made the acquaintance of a friend of mine,—a very remarkable woman, Mrs. M——, a lady of foreign birth and high social position, married to a Britisher. Unique as a mother, untiring in the service of humanity, and possessing extraordinary supernormal powers, she gave him, firsthand and from personal investigation, information and understanding of so unusual a character, that Mr. Saltus regarded the privilege of knowing her as an unmerited blessing. She gave him also a curious old talisman—a tiny Rosicrucian cross that had once belonged to a world-renowned occultist. So frail and worn had it become by centuries of use, that twice it had been backed with gold to hold it together. It was the last earthly possession his hand relinquished in death.
Figuratively and literally, Mr. Saltus sat at Mrs. M——'s feet and absorbed what she gave him. Her influence on his life was more vital and far-reaching than that of any other human he ever met.
"Triple ass that I was," he said over and over again after he met her. "I sent out 'Lords of the Ghostland' when I knew nothing. Had I but waited till now I could have written a masterpiece. Instead of that I turned out a skeleton,—no meat, no truth, no insides."
This fretted him constantly.
"If I live long enough," he said, "I will undo 'The Philosophy of Disenchantment' and 'The Anatomy of Negation,' as well as 'Lords of the Ghostland,' and epitomize all I have digested into a single volume and call it 'The History of God.' Then I will sing myNunc dimittis, go to Adyar and put my pen at the service of Mrs. Besant."
It was a far step for the man who had once written, "There is no help here or anywhere." Years of study, reinforced by the chasteningeffect of thinking for another less practical and more highly strung than himself, had done much for him, but the increasing application of Theosophy to his daily life had done more. As far as he could, he made himself over—recognizing and combatting his weaknesses with heroic courage. Though the remnants of his fundamental fears remained and cropped up at unexpected times and places, they were modified to a remarkable degree. One could not anticipate them however, and occasionally they led to rather amusing results.
It was after a prolonged period of insomnia and a nervous breakdown, super-induced by circumstances entirely unconnected with Mr. Saltus, and after I had been in bed for weeks, that one of these lapses occurred. He was an angel during this trying time, rushing up to Covent Garden daily to get me peaches (a luxury in England) and taking his meals on a tray at my bedside, after which he read aloud to me as long as I cared to have him do so. It was after a peaceful evening passed in thisway, that one of his fears reappeared for a moment, and in such a way that one with less understanding of his psychology would have been very angry.
Mr. Saltus' bed-room opened off my own, and it was our custom to leave the door ajar in case I should need something during the night. He was asleep and I was resting when a low "woof" came from the foot of my bed. Another "woof!" and then a growl followed. Toto was trained to be quiet and did not "woof" without cause. I sat up and listened. Light footsteps were audible from the drawing-room down stairs. I waited a moment or two to make sure, and then, speaking quite naturally but loudly enough to waken him, I said:—
"Get up, Snippsy. I think there are burglars down-stairs."
What followed was enough to frighten even the most hardened criminal. With a blood-curdling shriek, Mr. Saltus sprang from his bed, and slamming the door between our rooms locked it,—locking as well the otherdoor giving on to the hallway. So unexpected was it, and so sudden, that it took me a moment to realize that instead of going to the rescue, he was, as he afterward admitted, curled up in bed, with the covering pulled over his head.
Somebody had to do something. Getting out of the bed I had not left for weeks, with Toto leading the way, I turned on the drawing-room lights from a switch, and tottered down stairs. The intruder was quite harmless,—a man who occupied a tiny pied-à-terre on the ground floor. He had mislaid his matches, and being on a friendly footing with us had, as he thought, come up noiselessly to help himself from our smoking-stand.
When with shaking legs I managed to get up the stairs again, Mr. Saltus met me on the landing. He had gained control of his nerves and was coming down to look after me. It was my hand which locked the door between our rooms that time, after calling him a "spineless jellyfish," an epithet which he had heard manytimes before and which always called forth the same reply:—
"Were our spines of the same rigidity we would have killed one another years ago."
None the less Mr. Saltus was none too keen for me to ask those of our friends who dropped in for tea, if they wanted to hear how he routed the burglar. How ever the telling of this affair sounds, it was not the result of fear in the accepted sense of the word. It was a condition of Mr. Saltus' nerves only.
A day or so later, a specialist having been called in to see me, he suggested that pernicious anæmia might be aggravating my illness, and that transfusion of blood might be necessary. Mr. Saltus bared his arm in an instant, insisting that no time be lost and that his blood and no other be taken. It was however found to be a wrong diagnosis. Brave he always was, when there was no sudden impact on his nervous system.
Mr. Saltus loved London, the city, the life and the people. He loved even the greyness ofit,—loved the British Museum and the parks, but most of his old friends had passed on. One interesting figure silhouetted against the background of England,—one whom Mr. Saltus had known until then only through correspondence,—was T. P. O'Connor, M.P. Having seen quite a bit of him, and most pleasurably, the previous winter in Algeria, our first outing after I was able to be about, was to have tea on the Terrace at the House of Commons with him.
"I've read everything you have written," he told Mr. Saltus with a handshake.
"That you have survived it is the more amazing," Mr. Saltus answered.
Tea and time were consumed and forgotten. They were at home with each other in a moment, and Mr. Saltus was enchanted by "Tay Pay's" wit and charm. They laughed and chatted like two boys in a tuck-shop.
It was upon returning from the House that afternoon that Mr. Saltus complained again of the pain in his legs.
"I walk less and less easily each day," he said. "What can be coming over me? Am I going to be paralyzed?"
A physician was consulted the following day, and a liniment prescribed, but the pain went on increasing. A few days after, and while Mr. Saltus was much depressed over his condition, we were invited to a dinner, which he accepted. Barring myself, the guests were all celebrities of various kinds,—playwrights, authors, actors, musicians and lecturers, with Mr. Saltus the visiting comet. It was not until the taxi was at the door to take us that he announced:—
"Mr. Me, won't go."
There were no extenuating circumstances to excuse him, nor did he attempt to find or fake them. Past experience had shown him how transparent they were to me.
"I'm not up to the mark. I'm incapable of being a rapid-firing battery of wit, wisdom and epigrams," he announced.
"You should have realized your limitationssooner," I said, "for you cannot evade a dinner at the twelfth hour, when you are the guest of dishonour as well. We are already late. It's outrageous."
"Outrageous or not, I'm not going. You never do anything that is expected of you. Why should I? The less people see of me the better they will think of me. You must go and get me out of it as well as you can. Take a leaf out of my book and invent something."
That was too much.
"I won't have to invent, to tell them you are a lunatic resting from a lucid interval. No wonder there is no stampede for your work. You wrap yourself in impenetrability and expect the world to be clairvoyant. It won't do. I will be Balaam's ass no longer. You must bray for yourself."
His braying was the usual "Wow! Wow! Please extract poor Snippsy. He'll take Totesy Babe for a walk in Kensington Gardens every day and be such a good boy ever after. Whydo you care how I treat others? I'm always old dog Tray to you."
What could one do with such a man? He had to be taken "as is," the way they label goods on bargain counters, or not at all. I could have insisted, and taken him willing or not, for more than he disliked being dragged out against his will did he hate to have me seriously provoked with him. But what would have been the use? He would have gone had I insisted, but acquitted himself in such a way that his absence would have been preferable.
This was not the first time that such a thing had occurred.
When I was living in California he had refused to come to the dining-table in my own house, and gone to bed while the guests were arriving. Fate was against him, however, in that instance. I invented a fairy tale to cover his absence and all would have been well, but while the maid was passing coffee in the drawing-room Mr. Saltus remembered a bottle of gin in the pantry. No one answering hisring, he slipped down the back stairway to secure it, and tripping, fell down the entire length, with such a thud that guests as well as servants were in doubt if a burglar or an earthquake was responsible. With one accord they rushed in the direction of the sound and discovered him in extreme negligée, to his even more extreme embarrassment. This was an episode he did not like referred to, but upon this second offense it was dragged out again in all its details!
"No white woman should have married you," I exploded, "and I have only myself to blame with two sad examples to warn me. Good-night."
It was no rare treat to appear at a dinner of celebrities after the guests were seated, minus the star who was my sole reason for being included, and take it as if I were lapping up cream. To be casual was no joke. I entered with the remark, that, being an assemblage of egos answering to the classification genius, they alone could appreciate the temperamentalspells of unknown origin afflicting the species—and be tolerant to a fellow in crime. To sit down and pretend to enjoy it topped the treat.
A fortnight later saw us at the Granville Hotel, Ramsgate, for the week end. As he had been there less frequently than myself, and knew fewer people, some one referred to Mr. Saltus as "Mrs. Saltus' husband." That amused him enormously.
"They have me in my proper place here," he exclaimed. "They know I am a subordinate entity."
A greater surprise was, however, awaiting him when a child on the sand called out:—
"Look,—there is Toto's Papa!"
That sent Mr. Saltus into a fit of laughter. He always enjoyed a joke on himself so much. The sea air which is supposed to induce sleep was our reason for going to Ramsgate, but even sea air handicapped by the noise of slamming doors and loud talking in the halls, seemed useless. I complained of this beforegoing to my room, and Mr. Saltus said that he would speak to the manager of the hotel and see what could be done about it.
The following morning, upon going out with the dog, I almost fell over Mr. Saltus. He had sat on a chair with his back against my door all night in order to urge those who passed to be quiet. That offset the incident of the burglar and the dinner with interest, yet he did not feel that he had done anything exceptional. He was himself,—that was all. The latent sweetness and unselfishness in his character developed along lines uniquely his own. He was an entity who could not be taken apart and analyzed. He had to be accepted as a whole or not at all. He had his weaknesses,—they were near the surface and but imperfectly concealed. He had also a nobility, a fineness and a greatness of soul I have never seen equalled by any human, at any time, anywhere.
A day or two later the world was shaken by the wordWAR. Rumours of it hadbeen in the air for some time,—not a world war to be sure, but a civil one in Ireland. Leading Home Rule members of Parliament had been in nightly conference with the Prime Minister, and from what our friend "Tay Pay" had let drop, we anticipated anything but what eventuated. No one in unprepared England dreamed of war. The idea was too bizarre, too theatrical to be true. Everyone was talking about it, but no one really believed it possible, except perhaps those few who, having an extension of consciousness, could penetrate the veil of the seeming of things.
Mr. Saltus with myself was in a cinema, when, during an interval between pictures, there was flashed upon the screen the message, "Great Britain sends ultimatum to Germany." The audience, spell-bound at first and silent, let out an enthusiastic "Hurrah!" Mr. Saltus gripped me by the arm and whispered:—
"If this is true it means not only a world war but the breaking up of our home here, and my return to the States, for it may last for years,and no one knows how the stock market may jump and whether ruin camps on the door-step." (What little Mr. Saltus had was in stocks and bonds.)
British as he was in sympathy and inclination—wishing, as he had said many times, that karma would bring him back next life as an English country gentleman,—Mr. Saltus threw himself into the spirit of what followed, in a way that no one could have foreseen. Countermanding the orders given the maid never go to his room unless the house was on fire, he told her to bring the morning papers at whatever hour they were delivered, which was usually before seven, and thereafter during the day to take up all the extras she could secure. "Floraline Schopenhauer" was put aside, and a sonnet, "Caligula Germanicus," was the immediate result.
The summer advanced, and so did the march toward Paris. Then, in common with all Americans in England, he began to rage against the United States and its apparentapathy. His inability to do anything was irksome. To stand on the balcony giving off of our drawing-room and watch the first raw recruits march past, made it difficult for him to restrain himself. With a Union Jack fastened to Toto's collar he would go out for his usual walk in Kensington Gardens, and come back raging at his uselessness. Backed by a wife proud of her British ancestry and growing more and more indignant each day at the United States Government, Mr. Saltus finally decided to become a naturalized British subject. Incidentally, this was what Henry James did a little later on. That he did not take out these papers (which, had it been done, would have saved me a series of unpleasant incidents) was owing to the fact that such small possessions as he had were in the United States, and that, writing for the magazines and newspapers published in New York, he was dependent on the good-will of the American public. It was taking a chance to swap countries during awar. A blacklisting of his work was within the possibilities.
At the beginning of the war people were seen in restaurants and theatres a great deal. The slogan "Business as usual" meant the keeping alive of their morale. That phase of it passed Mr. Saltus unnoticed. Not half a dozen times during his life in London did he go out of an evening. They were all alike, prefaced by a short walk to give our dog some exercise, followed by an hour or two of studying the Quabala. Such a life would have been not only deadly to the normal woman, but would have sent her rushing to Reno. So seldom was Mr. Saltus asked by me to go anywhere, and so certain was he that if asked it would be worth while, that he never questioned where I was taking him. Like the little boy who when he was good was very good indeed and when he was bad was horrid, Mr. Saltus took the hurdle from one to the other at intervals. It was about seven to five, the balance, however, being in his favour.
Among his mental twists was a very pronounced one. Willing enough to entertain now and again provided the people were interesting, he was unalterably opposed to having anyone, no matter who, sleep under our roof for even a single night. Strangers irritated him, and friends if they remained too long did so as well. One incident shows how embarrassing it could become at times.
Among my friends was a beautiful and talented girl, Miss H——, who lived in the country, and for whom Mr. Saltus had expressed much admiration. She came up to London one afternoon. It was in the early days of the war, when hotels and boarding-houses were packed with Americans waiting to sail for home. In these circumstances she could find no place to stop; and, knowing we had a maisonette of some size, she called me on the telephone and asked if I could put her up for the night, suggesting very considerately that she would occupy the chesterfield in the drawing-room on the floor below our sleeping rooms.Well acquainted with Mr. Saltus' peculiarities, I would have invented an excuse, but his admiration for her had been so often expressed that I believed she would prove the exception, so, deciding to chance it, I told her to come. Upon his return from a walk I told him what had occurred. The clouds gathered. Didn't I know that no one, princess or queen, would be welcome to stay over a night? His house was his castle. To everyone else he had to be Edgar Saltus, the author. With me only could he be Snippsy and take his comfort. Argument sent him into a rage. Told at last that she positively must come, he ran upstairs and packed his suitcases.
"If she comes I go to a hotel."
"That is impossible," I told him. "She would have gone to one herself if she could have secured a room anywhere. The poor girl only asks to sleep down stairs in the drawing-room."
"If I can't get a room I'll sleep on a park bench or the ground. It's summer and it won'tkill me. The men at the front have much worse."
There was no bluff about it.
"Call her up," he urged, "and tell her I am a lunatic whose worst mania is killing people in their sleep."
"It's likely that she would believe a tale that wagged like that, and she would hate you forever afterward."
"What the devil do I care?" he screamed. "Let her hate all she likes provided she stays away."
"Call her yourself," I said, "and tell her so. It's your funeral, not mine."
Straight to the telephone he went and did so, not in the language he had used to me. It was apologetic and diplomatic in the extreme, but it let her know very definitely that she could not come. She did not come, and she never darkened our door again; and there is very little doubt in my mind but that she regarded me as the culprit and Mr. Saltus as the scapegoat forced to do an unpardonableact. She probably concluded upon thinking it over that I looked upon her as more dangerous than the woman with the sack she had heard us joke about, and that I was afraid she might carry him off more effectually.
I had let Mr. Saltus turn himself out of the house when we were in Los Angeles because a principle was involved and the life of a defenceless animal jeopardized. There was no question of that in this case, for humans speak or shriek their need; besides, Miss H—— was a very charming girl and had other acquaintances in London.
So Mr. Saltus slept in peace under his own roof and the chapter was closed.
On the heels of this episode was one of another character. Among Mr. Saltus' many charming qualities was an especially endearing one. With persons he loved, the passing of years seemed to leave no trace whatever, and he could see no difference in their personal appearance. In his eyes, until the hour of his death, I remained the fragile and impertinent child to whom he had stretched out his hand on the sands of Narragansett Pier,—a helpless and impractical creature in a world of scheming scoundrels.
In his eyes I had not a fault. It was not that he was in ignorance of my limitations and undesirable qualities; these he saw with clarity, but he believed that every virtue had its negative aspect as well,—the defects of its qualities, as he expressed it,—and to divert or eliminate these was to impair the desirable attributesbehind them. In consequence any shortcomings of mine were regarded as indications only of the most superlative virtues, and not to be tampered with. No woman could ask more of a man than to accept her limitations and incapacities as evidences of her extraordinary worth. This hallucination was a pleasing one, but it had its negative side as well. Nothing could convince Mr. Saltus that every male creature was not laying plans to entice me away from him. The fact that for long periods at a time I was not only ill, but looked too frail to attract anything more than sympathy, counted for nothing. The fact that the majority of men could not run fast enough from a woman possessing my defects was unconvincing to him. Over and over he was told that the qualities which attracted him would antagonize the average man from the start. He was still convinced that I was a fragile and unsuspecting child in a world of vultures and demons. It must be said, however, that Mr. Saltus was too much of a philosopher ever to ask me todo or to omit anything. My freedom of action was limitless and his trust absolute, and he never questioned any of my actions except as a joke.
Among our acquaintances was a Turkish diplomat, T—— Bey. Occasionally, as is the custom in England, I had tea with him or he with us, and now and again I went with him for a walk in the Gardens. The fact that he looked enough like Mr. Saltus to be a twin brother had first called him to my attention. He was perhaps ten years younger, but they looked about of an age.
Besides the fat woman and the elemental, there was another joke we had rehearsed for years. It was as follows, and leads directly to the incident concerning T—— Bey.
"If you had not been such a black devil I would not have fancied you," I used to tell him.
"I'm not a black devil. I'm a good little slavey."
"No,—you're a little dark E" (making a punon his name), "and your complexion is your stock in trade."
"I thought it was my wheedling ways?"
"No, indeed! And if I ever disappear, look about for a man a shade or two darker than yourself and miaw around the neighborhood."
"Any man darker than I will have a touch of the tar brush."
"Perhaps you have a bit yourself. Remember, an ancestress of yours came from Port Royal, Jamaica. I have often suspected the worst."
This joking always amused him so much that when en route to Africa the year before I had written him saying that it was with delightful anticipations I neared the home of his ancestors. That letter brought the query, "Which, monkeys or blacks?" To which I replied that they would be "high monkey-monks of some kind."
Much as he enjoyed this chaffing with me, T—— Bey stuck somewhat in his throat when I joked about him. Accustomed to hishabit of non-interference—for, as he remarked, "Dogs can be trained, but cats have to have their own way in everything"—I was amazed when he said:—
"If you don't mind, and can see your way to it, I would rather you did not go alone to restaurants with T—— Bey."
"Of course not if you prefer," was my immediate reply. It was a trivial matter, too unimportant for discussion. An hour later, however, when going into the Ritz for tea with some friends from the country, I found T—— Bey was included. That was quite all right. What was not so was the fact, that while tea was being served an urgent telephone call made it necessary for my friends to leave at once. T—— Bey and I were left alone having our tea together. To get up and go, no matter what the excuse, would have been an insult. There was nothing to do but to remain and explain the circumstances afterward to Mr. Saltus. That explanation was never given or asked. As we were finishing our tea Mr. Saltuswalked into the room, saw us, and coming forward smiling with outstretched hand asked if he might join us. This he did, chatting all the time as delightfully as he could. Being asked by T—— Bey if he knew I was in the Ritz, he answered lightly, but with an underlying meaning:—
"Myintuitionsabout Mrs. Saltus are uncanny. If she has as much as a headache I know it. If she is perplexed I feel it, and if she is vexed with me without giving a sign of it, her vibrations tear me to pieces and I cannot endure it."
On the way home I started to tell him how it had all come about, but he stopped me short.
"Leave explanations to strangers,—love understands. That you were there after what you said this morning, is in itself proof that it was accidental."
He would not listen to a word and the subject dropped then and there. It was perhaps because of his laxity in this respect that my regard for truth was adamant. It was in consequencecharacteristic of Mr. Saltus to avoid any discussion with me in which I might be forced to ask:—
"Do you want to hear the unvarnished truth?"
"No—no, varnish it,—varnish it, if it will hurt, which truth is more than likely to do. I would rather hear pleasing lies, even if I cannot believe them."
That was Mr. Saltus in the raw. He could not face truth, if either to hear it or to tell it was likely to cause pain or unpleasantness. Running parallel to this peculiarity was another, oriental in its courtesy, unusual in its application,—his attitude of deference toward me. Asked by T. P. O'Connor to express his views on a subject he had not considered until that moment he said:—
"Have you asked Mrs. Saltus what she thinks?"
"No," said T. P., "I'm asking you. It's your angle and opinion I want."
"My opinion is a zero. I haven't consideredthe subject at all. Ask Mrs. Saltus for hers. After this we will be sure to discuss it, and whatever I may say off hand, I am sure to accept her views in a week or two anyway. Ask her now, it will save time."
Not only was his attitude highly deferential but most embarrassing at times. Upon one occasion I was asked by a foreign diplomat how it felt to live with a genius. Before I could reply Mr. Saltus took us both off our feet by cutting in:—
"Don't ask the poor girl something she does not know, and cannot answer. If you want to know about living with a genius, ask me."
The diplomat's understanding of English was imperfect, and this was too much for him. He may be still trying to decipher the reply.
During the years Mr. Saltus had become an adept with animals. Through his affection for Toto he had absorbed their psychology. It was he now who rushed into the street to pick up a horse's feed-bag and restore it to its place. Seeing an injured cat near Museum Street, andbeing unable to get any one to help him, he discarded an armful of books and, calling a taxi, carried the victim in his arms to the Cat Shelter at Camden Town.
With autumn came the query, What and where? The war had been gaining momentum. Obviously it was unwise to remain too long away from the base of supplies. Certain also it was that if we tore up our home, taking everything back to the States, it would mean remaining there. With one of us remaining in England a home might be resurrected. It was in consequence decided that Mr. Saltus should return to New York, and rejoin me after things looked a bit clearer. The pain in his legs increased so that he walked less and less each day, but when he saw how it worried me he pretended that he was getting better and had never been as well in his life. In his anxiety to spare me and his desire to avoid telling disagreeable things he made a frightful mistake. Had I known the truth, never would I have let him return alone.
Leaving England was always a tug at his heart-strings. He was reluctant to put an ocean between us and reluctant to turn his back on possible service. Little did either of us dream, however, that he was leaving his beloved British Museum for the last time. In Waterloo Station once more, the station in which he had said so many "good-byes," we said au revoir again.
Upon his return to New York Mr. Saltus took rooms near the Manhattan Club and began to write a few articles on the origin of the war. Since "The Monster," he had attempted nothing of a sustained or exhausting character. It was not long before his letters became filled with anxiety over the distance between us, and he began to write—jestingly, to be sure—of acute indigestion, which, gripping him suddenly and sharply, had dropped like a vulture out of the air. As he expressed it, "Karma has me, not by the heels, at last, but by the solar plexus first." Added to the distress in his legs, which he finally admitted, werethese attacks, so sharp and severe that after the slightest exertion he had to sit down faint from the pain. Had the war been over he was in no condition to take a journey. Miss G——afterward told me that he had greatly minimized the seriousness of his condition in writing me of it. Still his hope of returning to England persisted. The letters which followed me to Scotland, Ireland and back to England again were full of it.
Barring the little apartment in Washington Heights where Miss S—— made him welcome, offering such assistance and comfort as she could, and Miss G——, who suggested physicians and did all she could for his benefit, he went nowhere and saw no one. Had I known of the kindness and assistance so freely given by Miss S——, it would have relieved my mind concerning him. Unfortunately it was only after his death that I was able to thank her for all this.
By 1916 Mr. Saltus realized his condition better, and reading between the lines of hisletters I offered to return. Passage was taken, but because of the unrestricted submarining the boat was at the last moment withdrawn. Owing to the censor, cables as well as letters were delayed. The worry of it all made Mr. Saltus go down hill rapidly. In connection with this an incident occurred which affected Mr. Saltus horribly, and through no fault of either his or mine. It is so touching, so indicative of his finest sweetness and most endearing qualities, that it is not out of place here.
During the summer of 1913 we had met a very interesting Hindu of exalted position. A mutual interest in occultism drew us together, and thereafter he became one of our play persons, Mr. Saltus teasing me with the remark:—
"When you elope with I——, it will give me an excuse for following you to India, and India is the Mecca of my dreams."
"If it comes to the worst and you can see it no other way, I will do my best to accommodate you," was the usual reply.
One can joke over a matter face to face, butwar and distance give it another complexion. In a letter of mine, solely to amuse him, I mentioned that I had been out for tea with I——, and ended with the remark, "So don't give up your hope of India."
It was Mr. Saltus' custom as well as my own to write in the upper left-hand corner of our letters, "via Mauretania," or via this or that fast boat, in order that our letters would go the speediest way. Owing to the censor they were delayed at best, and then arrived five or six at a time. After this letter with the joke concerning I——, I wrote again almost at once, with "via Mauretania" in the corner as usual. Repairs being necessary, this particular boat was withdrawn for a fortnight, and my letter stupidly held over till its next crossing. All of this neither of us knew. What Mr. Saltus did know was that ten days went by without a line from me: a thing so unprecedented that it bowled him over completely. During this time I went down to Brighton for a week, which delayed my next letter, and caused thecables which came from him to be opened, delayed, and reopened, before reaching me, for resorts on the sea were under special scrutiny. Hearing nothing from his cables, Mr. Saltus sent others to two friends, neither of which were delivered, as the friends happened to be in France at the time. When these finally reached me in a bundle I was both horrified and overcome. Rushing to the cable office I sent the following: "No one but Snipps. Written constantly. At Brighton for the weekend. Eternamente. Mowgy." This I believed would set his mind at rest. Worse was to follow. After being held for some time the cable was not only returned to me, but it was discovered that I had omitted to register as a foreigner, and I was regarded with a certain amount of suspicion. Snipps, Mowgy, and Eternamente, were not English words, and I was required to explain them. It was a terrible mess. In the meantime a letter came from Mr. Saltus. So extraordinary is it,—so unlike the letter of the average male,—that its words areburned into my heart. That letter alone lifted him beyond and above the majority of his sex. After telling of his anxiety and the absence of letters it reads as follows:—
"... Do not think I am scolding you—and don't let me worry you either. I am not physically ill. I have only had a shock, and that prevents me from working. A few days ago I wrote you that I supposed I had not heard because the ships were delayed by storm and fog. Well, I waited hopefully. The storm passed, the fogs lifted and the ships came in. No letter. That was the shock, and was horrible. I cabled to the Brunswick, cabled also to the American Express and to Miss F——, and received no reply. My eyes look dreadfully, all blurred and red. I am not ill, but I might just as well be. I don't know when I will have the courage to look in my letter box. You will never know how horrible it is to look in and find it empty. It is as though I had a crack over the head, and a blow in the stomach. But there, little kit-cat, provided youare not hurt or ill no matter about me. Anyway, God willing and God grant it, I will get an answer to this. In cabling say only, "Well, and safe, Mowgy." Don't send it deferred rates, for every hour of waiting is agony. It ought to reach me on the second by noon. If it doesn't? Well, Mowgy, then in that case remember this. Always, whatever you do or omit, I shall love you just the same. Always whatever you do I will forgive it. You are my little world and will be until the end. And just this, my darling: try and write that you forgive me for anything I have done or said which I ought not to. Remember that you are my all and that you can always return to me without thought of censure on my part. My little girl—if I could only stop crying. E."
This incident upset me frightfully. It proved that Mr. Saltus must be in a critical condition mentally, to be imagining such wild and impossible things, and that he needed care. There was still no sign of the war coming to an end, and whether or not a home in England wouldbe advisable under the changed conditions was open to question, for we were suffering acutely, not only for food, but for light, heat and other necessities.
Risking the submarines and the unforeseen, I sailed for the States. Mr. Saltus met me at the dock. Lack of exercise had made him too stout by far, he looked puffy, and every few feet he had to stop, for between the pain in his legs and the flatulence he was in bad shape.
He took me to the Hotel Broztel in East 27th Street, not only because it was only around the corner from his rooms, but because he had ascertained that our dog would be welcome there.
Mr. Saltus' usual method of assuring Toto's reception was an amusing one. Going to the office of the hotel, wherever we happened to be, he would say to the room clerk:—
"I want to know if there is any objection to children?"
He was of course assured that there was none.
"But my child is not like other children," he would say. "She has a fancy for running about in the organism of a dog. That is all there is of dog about her,—the rest is far more human than yourself."
At that stage in the conversation the man at the desk would begin looking around to see if there was a keeper with him, and if help could be obtained quickly. When this uneasiness became apparent, I would stroll up with Toto, who, putting her paws on the desk, woofing and going through her paces, would so intrigue the room clerk that he would forget Mr. Saltus and decide that the crazy owners of such a clever creature could be accommodated.
In connection with hotels and Toto, Mr. Saltus had an original way of putting our names on the register. It savoured of sarcasm and a slap at me in the bargain, but he always insisted that it was neither, and insisted upon the following:—