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 my _Nunc 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 chastening effect 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 this way, 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 other door 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-a-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 many times 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 anaemia 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 of it,--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 limitations sooner," 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. Why do 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 his ring, 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 negligee, 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 temperamental
spells 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 before going 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 word _WAR_. Rumours of it
had been 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 apparent apathy. 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 a war. 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't kill 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 unpardonable act. 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.