The material for "Historia Amoris" having been put into shape for use, Mr.
Saltus began to study along a new line. Puzzled and confused as to what he
really believed, he agreed to study the sacred books of the East. None were
omitted,--the Zend-Avesta, the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Mahabharata--with
its jewel the Bhagavad-Gita,--the Egyptian Book of the Dead,--the Talmud
and the Koran.
Between their leaves he found a new world. Thereafter he was forever
digging for jewels,--which when found dazzled him with their beauty. With
the enthusiasm Balboa may have felt at discovering an unknown ocean, Mr.
Saltus went up the heights to the Garden of God, steeping himself in the
perfume of occult and esoteric lore. Subconsciously, he had found food for
his soul.
Rushing uptown to my home he would explain as soon as admitted:
"I have unearthed a gem. Listen."
Then the ideas and ideals of beauty I had so often put before him were
handed back to me. Seeing them in print had made them real and impersonal.
The Gita, which hitherto he had but dimly and imperfectly understood, after
that epitomized the double-distilled wisdom of the world to him.
One phrase from the Egyptian Book of the Dead moved him profoundly and made
him think along a new line. It referred to the soul in the Court of Amenti,
pleading for admission to the heaven world. "I have not talked abundantly.
I have not been anxious. I have harmed no heart. No one have I made weep."
The last phrase cut.
"Pre-suppose," he would say, "that your dream of reincarnation is true. My
God! What a debt would confront me next life! I hope it is all a myth."
It was at this time that the effects of his careless letters to the English
girl came home with a shock. Rushing up to my house one evening, white and
shaken with emotion, he said that a young man had called to see him at the
Manhattan Club, just as he was finishing dinner. After introducing himself
as a brother of Dorothy S----, he told Mr. Saltus that the girl had, after
his last letter, gone into a decline and died. He himself was not only ill,
but in want, with a wife to take care of. After exhausting every effort to
get employment in the States, he had reluctantly turned to the man he
considered an enemy with a debt to pay.
Mr. Saltus was horrified. Put on the rack by me in no uncertain
fashion,--realizing at last that what had been play to him had been a
tragedy to another, he found that phrase from the Book of the Dead
repeating itself. Like an embodied thing it walked by his side during the
day and sat on his pillow at night, whispering in his ear during the hours
of darkness, "Behold me! I am your work."
Needless to say that the brother and wife were looked after not alone by
him, but by my family as well. Scourged by the episode Mr. Saltus suffered
keenly. I suggested to him after a time, more or less with a view to lift
his mind from depression, that I would assist him in selecting and
condensing notes on the vital points of the sacred books of the East. Mr.
Saltus decided that he could compress them into a single volume. "The Lords
of the Ghostland" was created in the world of thought. The actual writing
of it took a comparatively short time. The preparation and condensing of
the material spread over years.
Among Mr. Saltus' peculiarities was an almost prenatal fear of dogs. His
mother had been terrified at them, and his childhood had been spent not
only without pets of any kind, but filled with fear of them. As he grew
older he became rather fond of cats, but the dog complex remained. Cats
could be patted, petted and put down. Dogs on the contrary growled, and had
been known to bite,--it being somewhat uncertain whether they would do one
or the other--or both.
When taking his walks Mr. Saltus would go to the extreme edge of the
sidewalk to avoid a dog, if happening to be alone he had no one to
interpose between him and it. Argument on the subject was useless. There
was but one way of reaching him effectively. This was to ignore his fears
and act as though they did not exist.
Our house was never without pets, nor were they confined to any particular
spot. Drawing-room chairs were theirs or not as they fancied, and wagging
tails greeted the incoming guests. No exception was made of Mr. Saltus, and
no pet put aside to make place for a pampered human. When he came, he had
to take things as he found them, pets included.
When I was taking a dip into Eliphas Levi, the phrase "Libertines love
cats" jumped from the page. The ammunition was too good to be lost. Every
time his fear of dogs cropped out, this quotation was hurled at him like a
bomb. It did its work most effectively. Timidly and reluctantly at first,
Mr. Saltus began to make overtures. The dogs, with unerring instinct
scenting his concealed antagonism, refused to be friends. That hurt more
than a little, but it helped. The substratum of his early training began to
crumble as his interest in animals and occultism increased.
Taking a phrase from the Book of the Dead, Mr. Saltus decided on the
euphonious title "Lords of the Ghostland." The writing of that volume
marked his transition from materialism to the realization that there were
higher realms of thought as yet unexplored by him. The new book was
building up on the ruins.
At the time he began writing the book I went abroad.
Believing that upon his taking the initiative and seeking a divorce, Mrs.
Saltus would strike back and secure it herself, Mr. Saltus brought a suit
against her, asking at the same time for the custody of his little
daughter. This act being looked upon with disapproval by my family, and his
friendship as more dangerous than dynamite, the ocean was hailed as a
splendid moat between a skilled sheik and a young girl. It meant another
summer abroad for me.
Mr. Saltus was in a state of collapse and despair. He could neither work
nor sit still.
"The anchor of my life is being torn up," he exclaimed. "I cannot go on and
live."
During the time which had elapsed since the summer in Narragansett Pier he
had drifted away a great deal from his old friends. Barring Miss G----,
with whom he dined every Sunday and saw frequently, Bob Davis, who was too
busy to give him much time, and James Huneker were his only friends. The
influence of Miss G---- had done much to make Mr. Saltus' viewpoint on life
happier. She enjoyed the stimulus of his mind, and with unselfish kindness
she introduced him to those who could further his interests and made her
home a place where he could bring his mending and his difficulties. Her
atmosphere was one of peace, and he sorely needed it.
That atmosphere was lacking in my home. Tolerated only because he was
regarded as less dangerous within than without, he was offered neither
meals nor mending. From me he received not peace but the sword, and that
sharpened and thrust into vulnerable places. His copy was criticised, his
viewpoint scorned, and his personality put under a searchlight that left
him seared and shaken.
In spite of all this the diet must have been full of vitamines, for he was
loth to relinquish it. As he himself used to put it, "Many of the prisoners
released from the Bastile returned there of their own free will, so
wretched were they in a world to which they had become unaccustomed."
The fact that I was really going abroad staggered him. Imitating a cat I
had at the time, he walked about the drawing-room exclaiming, "Miaw! Wow!
Wow! Poor Snippsy goes crazy. Oh Wowsy wee! Wowsy wee!" To be wowsy was the
last word of sadness in the vernacular of cats.
His suit for divorce failed. Mrs. Saltus, obviously aware of his motives,
saw no reason to fall in with them, and the attempt was not calculated to
reflect credit on himself. The newspapers were none too kind. Any man who
tries to divorce his wife is unpopular. Neither fish nor fowl, married nor
free, his position was an ambiguous one, calculated to involve others in
possible complications. Friends were not backward in throwing the worst
light and the blackest possibilities upon the screen.
This was in 1903. In those old days children did not bring up their parents
in the way they do now,--taking the center of the floor and holding forth
on their right to go to the devil in the way which pleases them best. Young
girls were supposed to skim lightly over the friendship of quasi-married
men. Extraordinary as it may seem in these days, it was not considered
proper at all. That prejudice was shared by my family.
Coming to the house the evening before I sailed, so unnerved that he could
not speak for tears, Mr. Saltus put a sheet of paper in my hands. So
unusual was it that the original is reproduced on the next page. It
read:--
25 Madison Avenue.
In the event of my death I direct that Marie F. Giles
shall have full possession in, and power over, my
remains. I further direct that said remains be
cremated, and the ashes given to the said Marie F.
Giles.
(Signed) EDGAR SALTUS.
"There," he said, "I have written this in triplicate. One copy is in the
Trust Company, and one in the hands of my attorney. It is like death--like
dying rather, to have you where I cannot hear your voice. If I survive, it
will be because I am convinced that nothing but death can separate us. If I
die--swear that you will keep my ashes and have them buried with yours.
Husbands may come and go--but I am an eternal part of you."
[Illustration: Fac-simile of Document given to Marie Saltus]
The paper, combined with what he said, touched me profoundly. It seemed
such a hopeless muddle. Only the belief that sorrow and adversity are the
soil in which the soul grows, offered consolation, and at the time even
that seemed meager. No one reaches the Land of Promise save on feet weary
and blistered by scorching sand--for always it is surrounded by desert. In
that emptiness and silence the ego finds the strength, poise and power to
endure. We are all taken into the desert at one time or another. That alone
which matters is what we bring back.
The following day Mr. Saltus was among those who saw me off. That
leave-taking brought him to a realization of the verities and the
non-essentials, as nothing else could have done. Letters followed like
sea-gulls. They punctuated the days and haunted the nights.
My darling child:--(Mr. Saltus wrote)
It was so dear of you to have left for me a letter. To
have left two. I could have kissed the postman. You are
the sweetest child in the world. That is it, you see.
You have made me love you so that I am helpless and
hopeless without you. I am trying to be brave and work,
but no Puff-tat and all work is like death.... I do so
hope that you are happy though missing your Snipps a
little. You won't forget me--Mowgy? It would do for me
if you should. There have been days without
number--nights without end--when I would give everything
the world can offer for a touch of your blessed hand in
mine and for the sound of your angel voice, my darling.
God bless and keep you, little girl. Always I am waiting
and working for you. It must not be in vain.
All my love always. Your
EDGAR.
"Lords of the Ghostland" took on shape very slowly. Mr. Saltus seemed
unable to focus his mind on anything. Well he knew that the relatives with
whom I was stopping abroad had lined up a lot of eligibles,--many of whom I
already knew. They ranged from an Italian Prince, with a time-worn title
and a moth-eaten tumble-down palace, to an English millionaire of recent
vintage. They were a job lot, accumulated to offset and counteract his
influence. Anchored and handicapped by a wife and child and a reputation
none too immaculate, he saw his position with clarity, and he wrote:--
My own darling:--
There is no little Mowgy any more. No little Puff-tat to
miaw and to say 'Quicksy' when you wanted anything. I
say it now. For God's sake return quicksy or poor Snipps
goes under. I do so hope you are happy, but don't drink
champagne or dine alone with men. Remember that you are
only a child,--my child, and should anything separate us
it would be as if a bullet had been put through my head.
Should anything happen to me you need blame yourself
only for having made me love you so absolutely. Hell has
no more horrors than those in which I am groping now. If
I can only get the syndicate running properly and the
divorce. I have said I will yield everything but
alimony.
Then, dearest, we can go to London and take the little
house in Brook Street you told me of. I am ill,--too ill
to work any more. Don't let anything or anybody come
between us unless you want my death. Others can give
you everything--everything but understanding. Trust the
man to whom you are the center of the universe.
Eternamente,
EDGAR.
Careful and painstaking in the writing of letters to editors and friends,
Mr. Saltus invariably wrote to me on a yellow copy pad and in pencil. In
twenty years the writing against the tinted background has become
indistinct, but, poor as it is, a fac-simile of one of his letters will be
given. The sheets on these pads were large, and as a rule his letters
covered ten or twelve of them. For the sake of brevity only the shortest
are quoted, and these not in full.
These letters which poured in several at a time on every steamer, rose as a
smoke between the eligibles and himself, as he expected them to do. He
seemed to need me so badly. Above and beyond every other sentiment he
inspired was the desire not only to protect him from the outside
world--that was simple--but to protect him against the greater danger:
himself and his weaknesses.
Disregarding the wishes and plans of those with whom I was stopping,
November saw me on the Celtic en route for New York.
The following spring found things in statu quo. "Lords of the Ghostland"
was no nearer completion and Mr. Saltus as far from free as before. Another
European trip was arranged for me. I was to sail on the Celtic early in
May. Once again Mr. Saltus was disconsolate, and as before the "wows" and
lamentations began. Toward the last however he appeared to accept it with a
great deal of philosophy. Among the crowd of "well wishers" at the boat
with arms full of fruit, flowers, pillows and sweets, was Mr. Saltus. He
had said good-bye the night before with surprising calmness. The lessons of
the Gita seemed to have been absorbed at last.
Before any of the others left the boat, he got up, made a gracious and
formal farewell and went away. That was as it should be. Family and friends
were delighted to see him go.
Half an hour later, as the boat was making its way down the bay, from
somewhere behind my deck-chair a faint but unmistakable 'miaw' pierced the
vibration of the propeller. I turned. Cap in one hand and steamer rug in
the other, there stood Mr. Saltus, smiling at my bewilderment.
"I am the cat who came back," he said laughing, "and I am going to sit at
your side and purr for a whole blissful week, and the future can take care
of itself."
Though it carried conflict and confusion into the party with me, one cannot
be ejected from a ship for effrontery. The weather was perfect, the water
like glass, and the sunshine uninterrupted. Mr. Saltus was so carefree and
happy that he romped and played like a child. He would attempt to hide and
then jump out from an unexpected place. He pretended to lose my books and
find them in queer corners. He played hide-and-seek and would run up the
companion-way like a boy, saying he was going to catch me by the ankles.
Upon reaching London however he found himself de trop again. From the home
of Lady C----, where I was stopping, to his hotel in Victoria Street one
could walk without fatigue. A taxi could make it in five minutes. With the
exception however of a few formal dinners Mr. Saltus was not urged to
consider himself at home there. On the contrary, he was given to understand
that his presence was a decided embarrassment and that free from his
influence I would probably annex one of the eligibles, who, outclassing
him, he was told, in name, money and position, were always pushed to the
fore.
All this he knew, but what was more important, he knew me, and the others
did not. Hunting up his old rooms in Margaret Street, Cavendish Square, he
re-engaged the suite he had occupied years before while writing "Mary
Magdalen." Announcing that he expected to remain all summer, he put in his
mornings at the British Museum studying cuneiform.
What Mr. Saltus did with his mornings did not concern Lady C---- in the
least. She was determined however that the balance of his time should be as
harmless. Months before we had planned to spend our summer in Germany that
year. In order that he should not conflict with these arrangements, a
fortnight later saw us all in Homburg. For reasons of finance Mr. Saltus
was unable to follow. He could write however, and he could send wires, and
he did both rather continuously. After one of the eligibles joined our
party he frequently wrote twice a day.
It was in Paris during the end of August, that he crossed our orbit again.
We were stopping at the Elysee Palace Hotel, and he at the St. James and
Albany. I had advised him of our plans in time.
However unwelcome he had been before, it was hospitality compared to the
hostility he encountered then, when members of the Diplomatic Corps, King's
Messengers and the younger sons of the nobility were welcomed. The absence
of money and the existence of a wife combined to put him in the category
of undesirable things. It was an unpleasant situation all around.
To thrash it out every day was too much of a fag. It was easier to say
nothing and do as one pleased, and Paris is wonderfully adapted to teas and
tete-a-'tetes.
The autumn found me in London with Lady C---- again, and Mr. Saltus in his
old rooms in Margaret Street once more. Sitting at the table where he had
written "Mary Magdalen" he tried to work as before, but the Muse had fled.
It was during this time that he first met Mr. G. F. Monkshood, who, under
the name of Hatchard, embellished Piccadilly with a fascinating and unique
bookshop. Monkshood it was who had brought out a small volume called "Wit
and Wisdom of Edgar Saltus." In it were compiled epigrams, phrases and
quotations from all of his earlier books. The subtle compliment pleased Mr.
Saltus very much. He had encountered so little appreciation. Mr. Monkshood
and himself were congenial souls. In the funereal shelter of the Blenheim
Club they drank and dined and devoured one another. Added to his other
accomplishments, Mr. Monkshood was a poet. Verses written to "The Lady of
the Opals" and signed by himself have smiled for years from a scrap-book of
mine.
The knowledge that he must return almost immediately to the States
stupefied Mr. Saltus. He was like a man who had been sand-bagged. He could
not speak of it without breaking down, and yet he had not the means to live
there in idleness. He used to refer to this time as his crucifixion. We
have to suffer terribly before we can learn how not to suffer at all. That
lesson from the Gita we could see the beauty of and the necessity for, but
we had not acquired it then. On the fly-leaf of "The Light of Asia" Mr.
Saltus had written, however, "The swiftest beast to bear you to perfection
is suffering."
The week before leaving was the hardest for him. He did not want to talk.
He could not, in fact. Riding on the tops of 'busses to the extreme limits
of London in all directions was his only diversion. Time and again we spent
a whole afternoon on one in silence.
In the middle of September Mr. Saltus left for the States. When he finally
got on the boat train for Southampton he was like a man starting for
Siberia for life. One thing alone comforted him. I agreed to leave Lady
C---- in a few weeks and take over his old rooms in Margaret Street. It
seemed to him that some emanations of his personality persisted there, and
he wanted to think of me in his old haunt.
Once more letters eight and ten pages long came on each steamer, and Mr.
Saltus hated to write letters. Sometimes there were cables of over a
hundred words. The hopelessness of it all was acute. From every angle it
was going around in circles and getting nowhere. One always returned to
where one left off. Disgrace--even destruction lurking on one side: on the
other, the necessity for cutting him out of my life like a cancer.
Upon his return he wrote:--
My dear darling Mowgy:
It is like death,--like dying, rather, to be here
without you. I said it would be like prison, but it is
worse. The sky is as blue as your own dear eyes. The
weather is absolutely tropical. Were you here there
would be pleasure in mere existence. But you are not
here, my darling, and I seem to be able to be conscious
only of that,--only that my little girl is far, far
away. I have heart for nothing. Yesterday I passed the
Astoria, and at the knowledge that there was no chance
of seeing you there, tears came to my eyes. Never can I
enter the place until you return, and now when will that
be? I think you would agree to come very soon if you
could realize what all this means to me. From the time I
kissed you last up to this moment I have done nothing
but plan for your return. From that time up to now, not
for an instant have you been absent from my thoughts. It
is not merely that I love you, dear; I cannot live
without you. Do you remember you asked me what I
should do and how I should act were I to lose you? I
told you I did not know. But, dear, I know now. It is
not wholly for that reason that I want you back. It is
first because I am so anxious and worried about you;
second because I can do better for you here. Without you
it will be as though I were dying by inches. But with
you here I can work and I can win. I rather thought that
I should have a line from your mother, but there was
nothing. My father, by the way, who is here at the
Murray Hill Hotel, will not outlive the winter, or it
may be another month or two. Then, dear, in all the
world I shall have not a relative,--not a tie. There
will be only you. You alone, dear, whom I love alone in
all the world. Come to me on the Oceanic,--cable me that
you will and then not even death shall part us,
Your EDGAR.
[Illustration: Fac-simile of Letter sent to Marie Saltus]
Letters like this poured in by every steamer. One did not know what to do
or how to act. His pathetic words swam before my eyes and interposed
between myself and the eligibles. In January Mr. Saltus fell ill--or said
he was ill. His letters and cables became incoherent. Then they ceased. A
note came to me from the physician who was attending him. In it he asked if
I could tell him if Mr. Saltus had any relatives or friends who could be
called upon. He painted a pathetic case. From his letter the delirium
tremens looked up and leered.
The letter had its effect. Mr. Saltus followed it up with a cable saying
that he expected to die. That was too much. Advising my family from
Liverpool of my intentions, and cabling him at the same time, I sailed.
Mr. Saltus met me at the pier. He was looking pale and thin, but in no
dying condition. It was the old story over again. There was no unpacking of
trunks for me however. I was off again to Mexico City in a few weeks and he
was alone as before, to continue going around in circles which ended where
they began.