There is nothing more delightful than travel, but roaming the world like a
Peer Gynt is not the same thing. Amusing at first, it finally gets on the
nerves,--and living in trunks for years is highly disorganizing. The
letters which followed me to Mexico City from Mr. Saltus said that his
father was going downhill rapidly.
Never close to his younger son in any sense, during his last days, however,
Francis Saltus turned to him more and more, relied on him and was comforted
by his presence. While Mr. Saltus' letters threw out hints of coming to
Mexico, where he hoped the New York Journal would find some work for him to
do,--his father's unwillingness to have such a distance between them, and
the real necessity for his presence within telephone distance, put an end
to that. Letters of introduction were sent by him, however, to his old
friend Eli Goddard, who was then living in Cordova, and to his
brother-in-law, Prince Poniatowski. Their visits to the home of my cousins
were duly recorded and sent to him, but they failed to keep him in a
cheerful mood.
However, the home,--the understanding, and the unselfish interest of Miss
G---- did much to keep him from moods and melancholy. No woman Mr. Saltus
knew up to that time was a more uplifting influence than she. Calm,
dependable, her feet well on the earth, her emanations were sweet and
soothing. The occasions on which Mr. Saltus saw his young daughter were
holidays to him. To take her to the Plaza Hotel for tea and a chat was
enough to brighten an entire week for him.
Of Bob Davis, Mr. Saltus saw quite a bit during this time. He is one of the
few men whom Mr. Saltus really loved.
"Bob," he used to say, "is unique. There is no one like him. He stimulates
me like champagne."
Many were the lunches and dinners they had together. Mr. Davis was
particularly fond of apple pancakes. Whenever he came to the Manhattan Club
they were ordered for his especial benefit, and Mr. Saltus used to address
him when writing to him as "Your Highness, The Duke of Apple-Pancake." He
was lunching with Bob Davis when one of his peculiarities crept out. A
number of letters and telegrams were brought to him. Never by any chance
did Mr. Saltus open letters unless from the postmark or the handwriting he
could be sure from whom they had been sent. That was not all,--he had to be
equally convinced that they contained no unpleasant news. Letters in
unknown handwriting were consigned unopened to the trash basket. If he
happened to be in his rooms when sorting them, and one or more were in the
doubtful class, they were tossed into a bureau drawer to be considered
later. In this way he lost not only cheques but many interesting
communications. People who wrote to him must have gone on wondering why no
reply was ever forthcoming. They will know now.
Letters from editors were unmistakable. They could be identified from their
envelopes. My writing, and that of his closest friends, he could take in at
a glance. Why take chances on the rest? What he did not know could not
worry him. There was serenity in an unopened letter. Any unpleasantness in
a note, however slight it might be, upset him to such an extent that he
could not concentrate his mind or write a line of copy that day.
On the occasion of this luncheon with Bob Davis, Mr. Saltus took in his
letters at a glance,--decided that there was nothing he cared to take a
chance on, and picking them up unopened he tore the lot into fragments. In
telling of it he said:--
"Bob always thought I was a bit queer. Now he must be certain that I am
quite mad."
This habit, instead of decreasing, grew with the years. He had a horror of
opening letters of any kind for some time before he died,--the courage of
youth having left him. After his death, his daughter and I spent two
afternoons going through one of his old trunks and some bureau drawers.
Hundreds of unopened letters, many with special delivery stamps on them,
were opened, read and destroyed by us. Several of them contained cheques
years old. It was incredible to his daughter that any one could have kept
them unopened during so many years. It was a fancy to which I had become
accustomed. He had not kept them because he was interested in them. He had
been too much occupied and too indifferent to destroy them.
Spring came, and the summer followed. Quoting from a letter of his, Mr.
Saltus wrote:
"There is green on the trees and the joy of springtime,
but there is nothing in my heart but despair. When is
this nightmare to end? When you were in Margaret Street
I could picture you. I was a part of it all. Now it is
chaos. Letters from Mexico City, from Orizaba and
Cuernavaca, and the devil knows where, tell me that
you are surrounded by beauty,--the beauty of living
things. Colour you say is the consciousness of nature.
Only the consciousness of desolation and despair is
mine."
The rainy season is the time to leave Mexico. Joining a
party, among whom was a friend of Eli Goddard's, a very
charming Spaniard, and still moving on like the
Wandering Jew, I went north through Los Angeles and
Santa Barbara to San Francisco. Spaniards are very
gallant. In writing of this one I perhaps emphasized
him overmuch. Telegrams of worry and warning followed.
A fortnight after I reached the St. Francis Hotel a
wire from Mr. Saltus read:--"My father died yesterday.
Leaving for San Francisco next week. Eternamente.
SNIPPSY."
A small inheritance from his father making finances less of a
pre-occupation, Mr. Saltus was free to go and come as he pleased. It was in
June when he appeared at the St. Francis Hotel. Even there the shadow
followed. He was not welcomed by our little party. With an indifference
and high-handedness almost amusing, Mr. Saltus turned not only the tables
but the chairs upon them. He treated them like dirt, refusing to dine and
finally even to speak to them. Between the lot I was like the Biblical baby
with two mothers, minus a Solomon in the background.
An amusing and characteristic episode happened when he had been there but a
short time. There was--and I believe is--a funny little restaurant in San
Francisco called Coppa's. It looked like a spoonful of old England dropped
there by mistake. Quaint mottoes, sketches and epigrams--the souvenirs of
artistic and satisfied souls--decorated the walls. The Cheshire Cheese is
something of a first cousin by comparison. Here, Jack London, Anna
Strunsky, now Mrs. William English Walling, and other celebrities used to
dine and linger. In that city of bohemian cafes this little place stood
alone.
Mr. Saltus hated restaurants. For some reason, the nearness of so many
people perhaps, they got on his nerves. In any event, restaurants put him
on edge to such an extent that he invariably quarrelled not only with the
waiters, but with those who were with him, if they objected to his manner
of carrying on. For this reason, it was something of a penance to go into a
restaurant with him. To include him in a party going to Coppa's, one had
first to proceed as follows:--
"If you go, will you be a good Snipps and not fight with the waiters?"
"I'll be a good Snipps. I'll take what you tell me and be thankful."
"Will you wear your muzzle and not jerk at the lead?"
"I'm old dog Tray--ever faithful."
"Old dog traitor--ever faithless you mean. I know your tricks, but come
along then."
He came. Coppa's was almost full, but by some turn of the tables we found
ourselves seated in the center of the room. That was enough to start Mr.
Saltus off. Restaurants were bad enough at best, even in a secluded
corner. In the middle of a room of closely packed tables--? He began as
usual.
"It's far too crowded. Mr. Me doesn't want to stay. Let's leave the others
and go somewhere else."
The muzzle as well as the menu was ignored and forgotten. When Mr. Saltus
began to growl it was preliminary only, but I knew the signs--knew, too,
what might be expected to follow.
As he ceased speaking a sudden cramp took possession of my right foot, and
my exclamation of surprise distracted his attention for the moment. It was
my turn to growl. A low shoe was kicked off during the growling and the
meal began. All at once a sympathetic cramp in the other foot compelled his
attention to be directed to me again while the remaining shoe was removed.
It may be mentioned in excuse that it was the fashion to wear ridiculously
high and narrow shoes at the time.
We had gone as far as the soup, which Mr. Saltus was sipping mechanically.
As the meal progressed my difficulties did also. Try as I might, the
offending shoes could not be forced on my feet again. Then the fun began.
Distracted by it all, Mr. Saltus accepted chicken and salad unmurmuringly,
in forgetfulness of his surroundings.
"You will have to sit here until every one goes or some one can fetch you a
larger pair of ties." This remark was from one of our conservative friends,
and it met with the approval of the others. Mr. Saltus was becoming restive
again by this time.
"Not at all," I answered. "It's unfortunate to be sure, but get up and go I
shall in my stocking feet. There is no law making shoes obligatory,--and
besides, the people in this place are bohemians."
"All the more reason not to imitate them," was the reply.
That was enough to make the crowded little restaurant a most enchanting
place to Mr. Saltus. Tables and people became non-existent to him. I was
going to defy the lot, and that delighted him to such an extent that good
humour covered him like a garment. He even smiled at the waiters. Any show
of independence on my part, provided it did not conflict with him, was a
treat. Half rising in his seat he exclaimed:--
"Right you are, Mowgy. What the devil do you care for a pack of
nincompoops?"
The anguish of the others in the party at being seen leaving a restaurant
with a shoeless girl amused and delighted him. It could have been done
quietly and unnoticed but for his love of a joke. Our friends were
sufficiently horrified as it was, but for the denouement they were quite
unprepared. Realizing their discomfiture and revelling in it, Mr. Saltus
made a dive under the table. That was not uncommon, for, knowing my habit
of letting gloves, handkerchiefs and pocket-books fall from my lap
unnoticed, he had trained himself to look. That was the old dog Tray, as he
called himself. When he reappeared upon this occasion it was with the
offending shoes held before him as a votive offering, and leading the
procession he carried them through the restaurant into the street. Queer
people with odd fancies were no novelty at Coppa's. This however was an
innovation. Some one started clapping, and with one accord the roomful of
people took it up. I was laughing, but our friends were scarlet with rage.
We hailed a passing taxi.
"What the devil do you care what people think?" Mr. Saltus exclaimed.
"Sheep and swine follow, but you cannot make either of Mowgy,--thank God."
After that pleasurable and ingratiating episode he was not tormented by
invitations from my friends. It was too bad that Anna Strunsky was not in
the restaurant that evening, for she would have been amused. We had the
pleasure of meeting her not long after this and were enchanted with her
cleverness and charm.
Mr. Saltus' interest in spiritualism had flagged. Hearing that Miller, the
materializing medium, was holding seances in San Francisco, he determined
to go. This we did. Bold in a restaurant, or when he was crushed in a
crowd, where a blow from him frequently prefaced a word, he was a child
when encountering phenomena of this kind. Sitting silent and almost sullen
in a corner, he shrank within himself,--keen to see, hear and investigate,
yet frightened as a baby in the dark. Miller seemed to affect him more than
others had done.
"I'm frightened," he said. "If a spook should come and ask for me,--you
answer it."
With clenched and clammy hands he sat and shivered, and when a form
purporting to be that of his mother appeared and gave the name of Eliza
Saltus, he whispered to me:--
"Speak."
"Speak yourself," I said. "I refuse to play the part of a phonograph all
the time. It is for you, not me, that the spirit is here."
The shimmering form came closer. It almost brushed Mr. Saltus' knee. He
shut his eyes and reiterated imploringly:--
"Speak, Mowgy! For God's sake speak to it!"
The shadowy form had held together as long perhaps as it could. The
ectoplasm may have given out or his condition of mind influenced it. In any
event the form flickered. With his eyes still closed Mr. Saltus clutched me
by the arm:--
"Has it gone?" he whispered.
As he spoke the form flickered again and went out. It was a long time
before he wanted to go to a seance again.
During his stay in San Francisco he was guest of honour at the Bohemian
Club, and he met there many interesting people. A brief visit to
Carmel-by-the-Sea brought his Californian trip to a close. The State
interested him. He liked the quiet,--the almost perpetual sunshine, and
above all, the absence of convention and the freedom enjoyed by everyone.
It was with regret that he left the sunshine and the silence to chafe under
the vibrations and noise of New York.
Once again pathetic letters raced across the continent. He had no home and
no anchor. Mrs. Saltus and his daughter were living permanently abroad. His
hours with the latter had been his oases in a desert of loneliness. Now,
barring Miss G----, Dr. Kelley and occasionally Bob Davis, he had almost no
friends. Upon reaching New York he finished a series of articles on Russia,
for Munsey's Magazine which later formed the basis of his "Imperial Orgy."
In the late autumn the failing health of my father recalled me to New York.
Mr. Saltus was finishing the last chapter of "Lords of the Ghostland." No
other book he ever wrote was strung out over so long a time, or took so
many hours of research. He brought the manuscript to my home, returning the
next day for the praise and patting on the back he felt that he deserved.
"What do you think of it?" he asked. The small boy always appeared at such
moments.
"The King of France and twice ten thousand men,--rode up a hill and then
went down again," was the reply.
"What do you mean? Is there no climax?"
"Just that. You take the reader from protoplasm to paradise,--you lead him
through labyrinths, mazes and mysteries, and leave him just where you
started. If you cannot give the reader a ladder give him a straw,--but give
him something."
We are all tenacious with the children of our brain, Edgar Saltus
especially so, but in this instance he took the criticism willingly. That
last chapter he re-wrote four times, amplifying the idea of the continuity
of life and the possibility of reincarnation, which he referred to as the
"supreme Alhambra of dream." What he offered then was not his belief, but a
theory and a suggestion. The last chapter curiously enough was the part of
the book receiving the highest praise from the critics, who with one accord
said that he had struck a new and exalted note. A few years later he was
wringing his hands because he could not re-write "Lords of the Ghostland"
in the light of what he then knew. Over and over again he lamented this
fact.
"If I had not been so pig-headed,--so dense. Having the chance to turn out
a masterpiece,--a thing that would have lived,--I passed it by. I saw only
in a restricted circle, when had I but looked up, a limitless horizon of
wonder and wisdom stretched before me."