coincidences, fantastic happenings. Rapes and incests decorate his
pages. He does not ask us to believe his monstrous stories; he compels
us to. He carries us by means of the careless expenditure of many
passages of somewhat ribald beauty, along with him, captive to his
pervasive charm. We are constantly reminded, in endless, almost
wearisome, imagery, of gold and purple, foreign languages, esoteric
philosophies, foods the names of which strike the ear as graciously
as they themselves might strike the tongue. From Huysmans he has
learned the formula for ravishing all our senses. Words are often used
for their own sakes to call up images, colour flits across every page,
across, indeed, every line. We taste, we smell, we see. There is the
pomp and circumstance of the Roman Catholic ritual in these pages, the
Roman Catholic ritual well supplied with mythical monsters, singing
flowers, and blooming women. Strange scarlet and mulberry threads form
the woof of these tapestries, threads pulled with great labour from
all the art of the past. There is, in much of his work, an
undercurrent of subtle sensuous erotic poison; in one of her stories
Edna Kenton tells us that _chartreuse jaune_ and bananas form such a
poison. There is a suggestion of _chartreuse jaune_ and bananas in
much of the work of Edgar Saltus.
He is constantly obsessed by the mysteries of love and death, the
veils of Isis, the secrets of Moses. While others were delving in the
American soil his soul sped afar; he is not even a cosmopolitan; he is
a Greek, a Brahmin, a worshipper of Ishtar. There is a prodigious and
prodigal display of genius in his work, savannahs of epigrams, forests
of ideas, phrases enough to fill the ocean.[4] There is enough
material in the romances of Edgar Saltus to furnish all the cinema
companies in America with scenarios for a twelve-month.
Early in the Eighties a writer in "The Argus" referred to him as "the
prose laureate of pessimism." His philosophy may be summed up in a few
phrases: Nothing matters, Whatever will be is, Everything is possible,
and Since we live today let us make the best of it and live in Paris.
And through all the _opera_ of Saltus, through the rapes and murders,
the religious, philosophical, and social discussions, rings
Cherubino's still unanswered question, _Che cosa e amor?_ like a
persistent refrain.
After having said so much it seems unnecessary to add that I strongly
advise the reader to go out and buy all the books of Edgar Saltus he
can find (and to find many will require patience and dexterity, as
most of them are out of print). To further aid him in the matter I
have prepared a short catalogue and with his permission I will guide
him gently through this new land. I have also added a list of
publishers, together with the dates of publication, although I cannot,
in some instances, vouch for their having been the original imprints.
It may be noted that almost all his books have been reprinted in
England.[5]
"Balzac,"[6] signed Edgar Evertson Saltus (for a time he used his full
name) is such good literary criticism and such good personal biography
that one wishes the author had tried the form again. He did not save
in his prefaces to his translations, his essay on Victor Hugo, and his
short study of Oscar Wilde. In its miniature way, for the book is
slight, "Balzac" is as good of its kind as James Huneker's "Chopin,"
Auguste Ehrhard's "Fanny Elssler," and Frank Harris's "Oscar Wilde."
In style it is superior to any of these. It is a very pretty
performance for a debut and if it is out of print, as I think it is,
some enterprising publisher should serve it to the public in a new
edition. The two most interesting chapters, largely anecdotal but
continuously illuminating, are entitled "The Vagaries of Genius,"
wherein one may find an infinitude of details concerning the manner
in which Balzac worked, and "The Chase for Gold," but tucked in
somewhere else is a charming digression about realism in fiction and
the bibliography should still be of use to students. Saltus tells us
that Balzac took all his characters' names from life, frequently from
signs which he observed on the street. In this respect Saltus
certainly has not followed him; in another he has been more imitative:
I refer to the Balzacian trick of carrying people from one book to
another.
"The Philosophy of Disenchantment"[7] is an ingratiating account of
the pessimism of Schopenhauer, a philosophy with which it would seem,
Saltus is fully in accord. Two-thirds of the book is allotted to
Schopenhauer, but the remainder is devoted to an exposition of the
teachings of von Hartmann and a final essay, "Is Life an Affliction?"
which query the author seems to answer in the affirmative. One of the
best-known of the Saltus books, "The Philosophy of Disenchantment" is
written in a clear, translucent style without the iridescence which
decorates his later _opera_.
"After-Dinner Stories from Balzac, done into English by Myndart
Verelst (obviously E. S.) with an introduction by Edgar Saltus"[8]
contains four of the Frenchman's tales, "The Red Inn," "Madame
Firmiani," "The 'Grande Breteche'," and "Madame de Beauseant." The
introduction is written in Saltus's most beguiling manner and may be
referred to as one of the most delightful short essays on Balzac
extant. The dedication is to V. A. B.
"The Anatomy of Negation"[9] is Saltus's best book in his earlier
manner, which is as free from flamboyancy as early Gothic, and one of
his most important contributions to our literature. The work is a
history of antitheism from Kapila to Leconte de Lisle and, while the
writer in a brief prefatory notice disavows all responsibility for the
opinions of others, it can readily be felt that the book is a labour
of love and that his sympathy lies with the iconoclasts through the
centuries. The chapter entitled, "The Convulsions of the Church," a
brief history of Christianity, is one of the most brilliant passages
to be found in any of the works of this very brilliant writer. Indeed,
if you are searching for the soul of Saltus you could not do better
than turn to this chapter. Of Jesus he says, "He was the most
entrancing of nihilists but no innovator." Here is another excerpt:
"Paganism was not dead; it had merely fallen asleep. Isis gave way to
Mary; apotheosis was replaced by canonization; the divinities were
succeeded by saints; and, Africa aiding, the Church surged from
mythology with the Trinity for tiara." Again: "Satan was Jew from horn
to hoof. The registry of his birth is contained in the evolution of
Hebraic thought." Never was any book so full of erudition and ideas so
easy to read, a fascinating _opus_, written by a true sceptic.
Following the Baedeker system, adopted so amusingly by Henry T. Finck
in his "Songs and Song Writers," this book should be triple-starred.
"Tales before Supper, from Theophile Gautier and Prosper Merimee, told
in English by Myndart Verelst and delayed with a proem by Edgar
Saltus."[10] Translation again. The stories are "Avatar" and "The
Venus of Ille." The essay at the beginning is a very charming
performance. This book is dedicated to E. C. R.
"Mr. Incoul's Misadventure,"[11] Saltus's first novel, is also the
best of his numerous fictions. It, too, should be triple-starred in
any guide book through this _opus_-land. In it will be found,
super-distilled, the very essence of all the best qualities of this
writer. It is written with fine reserve; the story holds; the
characters are unusually well observed, felt, and expressed. Irony
shines through the pages and the final cadence includes a murder and a
suicide. For the former, bromide of potassium and gas are utilized in
combination; for the latter laudanum, taken hypodermically, suffices.
There are scenes in Biarritz and Northern Spain which include a
thrilling picture of a bull-fight. There is an interesting glimpse of
the Paris Opera. There is a description of an epithumetic library
which embraces many forbidden titles, (How that "baron of moral
endeavour ... the professional hound of heaven," Anthony Comstock,
would have gloated over these shelves!), a vibrant page about Goya,
and another about a Thibetian cat. Many passages could be brought
forward as evidence that Mr. Saltus loves the fire-side sphynx. The
Mr. Incoul of the title gives one a very excellent idea of how inhuman
a just man can be. There is not a single slip in the skilful
delineation of this monster. The beautiful heroine vaguely shambles
into a tapestried background. She is _moyen age_ in her appealing
weakness. The _jeune premier_, Lenox Leigh, is well drawn and
lighted. Time after time the author strikes subtle harmonies which
must have delighted Henry James. Why is this book not dedicated to
author of "The Turn of the Screw" rather than to "E. A. S."? The pages
are permeated with suspense, horror, information, irony, and charm,
about evenly distributed, all of which qualities are expressed in the
astounding title (astounding after you have read the book). There is a
white marriage in this tale, stipulated in the hymeneal bond. In 1877
Tschaikovsky made a similar agreement with the woman he married.
"The Truth About Tristrem Varick"[12] is written with the same
restraint which characterizes the style of "Mr. Incoul's
Misadventure," a restraint seldom to be encountered in Saltus's later
fictions. One of the angles of the plot in which an irate father
attempts to suppress a marriage by suggesting incest, bobs up twice
again in his stories, for the last time nearly thirty years later in
"The Monster." Irony is the keynote of the work, a keynote sounded in
the dedication, "To my master, the philosopher of the unconscious,
Eduard von Hartmann, this attempt in ornamental disenchantment is
dutifully inscribed." The heroine, as frequently happens with Saltus
heroines, is veiled with the mysteries of Isis; we do not see the
workings of her mind and so we can sympathize with Varick, who pursues
her with persistent misunderstanding and arduous devotion through 240
pages. He attributes her aloofness to his father's unfounded charge
against his mother and her father. When he learns that she has borne a
child he suspects rape and, with a needle-like dagger that leaves no
sign, he kills the man he believes to have seduced her. Then he goes
to the lady to receive her thanks, only to learn that she loved the
man he has killed. Varick gives himself into the hands of the police,
confesses, and is delivered to justice, the lady gloating. A
strikingly pessimistic tale, only less good than "Mr. Incoul." There
is superb writing in these pages, many delightful passages. _La
Cenerentola_ and _Lucrezia Borgia_ are mentioned in passing. Saltus
has (or had) an exuberant fondness for Donizetti and Rossini. Here is
a telling bit of art criticism (attributed to a character) descriptive
of the Paris Salon: "There was a Manet or two, a Moreau and a dozen
excellent landscapes, but the rest represented the apotheosis of
mediocrity. The pictures which Gerome, Cabanel, Bouguereau, and the
acolytes of these pastry-cooks exposed were stupid and sterile as
church doors." This required courage in 1888. One wonders where Kenyon
Cox was at the time! Give this book at least two stars.
"Eden"[13] is the third of Saltus's fictions and possibly the poorest
of the three. Eden is the name of the heroine whose further name is
Menemon. Stuyvesant Square is her original habitat but she migrates to
Fifth Avenue. The tide is flowing South again nowadays. Her husband is
almost too good, but nevertheless appearances seem against him until
he explains that the lady with whom he has been seen in a cab is his
daughter by a former marriage, and the young man who seems to have
been making love to Eden is his son. Characteristic of Saltus is the
use of the Spanish word for nightingale. There are no deaths, no
suicides, no murders in these pages: a very eunuch of a book! A motto
from Tasso, "_Perdute e tutto il tempo che in amor non si spende_"
adorns the title page and the work is dedicated to "E----H
Amicissima."
With "The Pace that Kills"[14] Saltus doffs his old coat and dons a
new and gaudier garment. Possibly he owed this change in style to the
influence of the London movement so interestingly described in
Holbrook Jackson's "The Eighteen-Nineties." The book begins with
abortion and ends with a drop over a ferry-boat into the icy East
River. There is an averted strangulation of a baby and for the second
time in a Saltus _opus_ a dying millionaire leaves his fortune to the
St. Nicholas Hospital. Was Saltus ballyhooing for this institution?
The hero is a modern Don Juan. Alphabet Jones appears occasionally, as
he does in many of the other novels. This Balzacian trick obsessed the
author for a time. The book is dedicated to John S. Rutherford and
bears as a motto on its title page this quotation from Rabusson:
"_Pourquoi la mort? Dites, plutot, pourquoi la vie?_"
In "A Transaction in Hearts"[15] the Reverend Christopher Gonfallon
falls in love with his wife's sister, Claire. A New England countess,
a subsidiary figure, suggests d'Aurevilly. This story originally
appeared in "Lippincott's Magazine" and the editor who accepted it was
dismissed. A year or so later a new editor published "The Picture of
Dorian Gray." Still later Saltus tells me he met Oscar Wilde in London
and the Irish poet asked him for news of the new editor. "He's quite
well," answered Saltus. Wilde did not seem to be pleased: "When your
story appeared the editor was removed; when mine appeared I supposed
he would be hanged. Now you tell me he is quite well. It is most
disheartening." Saltus then asked Wilde why Dorian Gray was cut by his
friends. Wilde turned it over. "I fancy they saw him eating fish with
his knife."
"A Transient Guest and other Episodes"[16] contains three short tales
besides the title story: "The Grand Duke's Riches," an account of an
ingenious robbery at the Brevoort, "A Maid of Athens," and "Fausta," a
story of love, revenge, and death in Cuba. If the final cadence of the
book is a dagger thrust the prelude is a subtle poison, rafflesia, a
Sumatran plant, intended for the hero, Tancred Ennever, but consumed
with fatal results by his faithful fox terrier, Zut Alors. The story
is arresting and, as frequently happens in Saltus romances, a man
finds himself no match for a woman. "A Transient Guest" is dedicated
to K. J. M.
The slender volume entitled "Love and Lore"[17] contains a short
series of slight essays, interrupted by slighter sonnets, on subjects
which, for the most part, Saltus has treated at greater length and
with greater effect elsewhere. He makes a whimsical plea for a modern
revival of the Court of Love and in "Morality in Fiction" he derides
that Puritanism in American letters whose dark scourge H. L. Mencken
still pursues with a cat-o'-nine-tails and a hand grenade. He gives us
a fanciful set of rules for a novelist which, happily, he has ignored
in his own fictions. The most interesting, personal, and charming
chapter, although palpably derived from "The Philosophy of
Disenchantment," is that entitled "What Pessimism Is Not"; here again
we are in the heart of the author's philosophy. Those who like to read
books about the Iberian Peninsula can scarcely afford to miss
"Fabulous Andalucia," in which an able brief for the race of Othello
is presented: "Under the Moors, Cordova surpassed Baghdad. They wrote
more poetry than all the other nations put together. It was they who
invented rhyme; they wrote everything in it, contracts, challenges,
treaties, treatises, diplomatic notes and messages of love. From the
earliest khalyf down to Boabdil, the courts of Granada, of Cordova and
of Seville were peopled with poets, or, as they were termed, with
makers of Ghazels. It was they who gave us the dulcimer, the hautbois
and the guitar; it was they who invented the serenade. We are
indebted to them for algebra and for the canons of chivalry as
well.... It was from them that came the first threads of light which
preceded the Renaissance. Throughout mediaeval Europe they were the
only people that thought." The book is dedicated to Edgar Fawcett,
"perfect poet--perfect friend" and is embellished with a portrait of
its author.
"The Story Without a Name"[18] is a translation of "Une Histoire Sans
Nom" of Barbey d'Aurevilly, and is preceded by one of Saltus's
charming and atmospheric literary essays, the best on d'Aurevilly to
be found in English. When this book first appeared, Mr. Saltus informs
me, a reviewer, "who contrived to be both amusing and complimentary,"
said that Barbey d'Aurevilly was a fictitious person and that this
vile story was Saltus's own vile work!
"Mary Magdalen,"[19] on the whole disappointing, is nevertheless one
of the important Saltus _opera_. The opening chapters, like Oscar
Wilde's _Salome_ (published two years later than "Mary Magdalen") owe
much to Flaubert's "Herodias." The dance on the hands is a detail
from Flaubert, a detail which Tissot followed in his painting of
Salome.... From the later chapters it is possible that Paul Heyse
filched an idea. The turning point of his drama, _Maria von Magdala_,
hinges on Judas's love for Mary and his jealousy of Jesus. Saltus
develops exactly this situation. Heyse's play appeared in 1899, eight
years after Saltus's novel. However, Saltus has protested to me that
it is an idea that might have occurred to any one. "I put it in," he
added, "to make the action more nervous." The book begins well with a
description of Herod's court and Rome in Judea, but as a whole it is
unsatisfactory. Once the plot develops Saltus seems to lose interest.
He lazily quotes whole scenes from the Bible (George Moore very
cleverly avoided this pitfall in "The Brook Kerith"). The early
chapters suggest "Imperial Purple," which appeared a year later and
upon which he may well have been at work at this time. There is a
foreshadowing, too, of "The Lords of the Ghostland" in a very amusing
and slightly cynical passage in which Mary as a child listens to
Sephorah the sorceress tell legends and myths of Assyria and Egypt.
Mary interrupts with "Why you mean Moses! You mean Noah!" just as a
child of today, if confronted with the situations in the Greek dramas
would attribute them to Bayard Veiller or Eugene Walter. Saltus is too
much of a scholar to find much novelty in Christianity. But aside from
this passage cynicism is lacking from this book, a quality which makes
another story on the same theme, "Le Procurateur de Judee," one of the
greatest short stories in any language. Mary's sins are quickly passed
over and we come almost immediately to her conversion. Herod Antipas,
with his "fan-shaped beard" and vacillating Pilate, quite comparable
to a modern politician, are the most human and best-realized
characters in a book which should have been greater than it is. "Mary
Magdalen" is dedicated to Henry James.
"The facts in the Curious Case of H. Hyrtl, esq."[20] is a slight yarn
in the mellow Stevenson manner, with a kindly old gentleman as the
messenger of the supernatural who provides the wherewithal for a
marriage between an impoverished artist, who is painting
Heliogabolus's feast of roses, and his sweet young thing. Quite a
departure this from the usual Saltus manner; nevertheless there are
two deaths, one by shock, the other in a railway accident. The plot
depends on as many impossible entrances and exits as a Palais Royal
farce and the reader is asked to believe in many coincidences. The
book is dedicated to Lorillard Ronalds who, the author explains in a
few French phrases, asked him to write something "_de tres pure et de
tres chaste, pour une jeunesse, sans doute_." He adds that the story
is a rewriting of a tale which had appeared twenty years earlier.
"Imperial Purple"[21] marks the high-tide of Saltus's peculiar genius.
The emperors of imperial decadent Rome are led by the chains of art
behind the chariot wheels of the poet: Julius Caesar, whom Cato called
"that woman," Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, the wicked Agrippina, for
whom Agnes Repplier named her cat, Claudius, Nero, Hadrian, Vespasian,
down to the incredible Heliogabolus. Saltus, who has given us many
vivid details concerning the lives of his predecessors, seemingly
falters at this dread name, but only seemingly. More can be found
about this extraordinary and perverse emperor in Lombard's "L'Agonie"
and in Franz Blei's "The Powder Puff," but, although Saltus is brief,
he evokes an atmosphere and a picture in a few short paragraphs. The
sheer lyric quality of this book has remained unsurpassed by this
author. Indeed it is rare in all literature. Page after page that
Walter Pater, Oscar Wilde, or J. K. Huysmans might have been glad to
sign might be set before you. The man writes with invention, with sap,
with urge. Our eyes are not clogged with foot-notes and references. It
is plain that our author has delved in the "Scriptores Historiae
Augustae," that he has read Lampridius, Suetonius, and the others, but
he does not strive to make us aware of it. The historical form has at
last found a poet to render it supportable. Blood runs across the
pages; gore and booty are the principal themes; and yet Beauty struts
supreme through the horror. The author's sympathy is his password, a
sympathy which he occasionally exposes, for he is not above pinning
his heart to his sleeve, as, for example, when he says, "In spite of
Augustus's boast, the city was not by any means of marble. It was
filled with crooked little streets, with the atrocities of the
Tarquins, with houses unsightly and perilous, with the moss and dust
of ages; it compared with Alexandria as London compares with Paris; it
had a splendour of its own, but a splendour that could be heightened."
Here is a picture of squalid Rome: "In the subura, where at night
women sat in high chairs, ogling the passer with painted eyes, there
was still plenty of brick; tall tenements, soiled linen, the odor of
Whitechapel and St. Giles. The streets were noisy with match-pedlars,
with vendors of cake and tripe and coke; there were touts there too,
altars to unimportant divinities, lying Jews who dealt in old clothes,
in obscene pictures and unmentionable wares; at the crossings there
were thimbleriggers, clowns and jugglers, who made glass balls appear
and disappear surprisingly; there were doorways decorated with curious
invitations, gossipy barber shops, where, through the liberality of
politicians, the scum of a great city was shaved, curled and painted
free; and there were public houses, where vagabond slaves and sexless
priests drank the mulled wine of Crete, supped on the flesh of beasts
slaughtered in the arena, or watched the Syrian women twist to the
click of castanets." The account of the arena under Nero should not be
missed, but it is too long to quote here. The book, which we give
three stars, is dedicated to Edwin Albert Schroeder. Fortunately, of
all Saltus's works, it is the most readily procurable.
"Imperial Purple" has had a curious history. Belford, Clarke and Co.,
who hid their identity behind the "Morrill, Higgins" imprint, failed
shortly after they had issued the book. "Presently," Mr. Saltus writes
me, "a Chicago bibliofilou brought it out as the work of some one else
and called it 'The Sins of Nero.'" Meanwhile Greening published it in
London and finally Mitchell Kennerley reprinted it in New York. In
1911 Macmillan in London brought out "The Amazing Emperor
Heliogabolus" by the Reverend John Stuart Hay of Oxford. In the
preface to this book I found the following: "I have also the
permission of Mr. E. E. Saltus of Harvard University (_sic_) to quote
his vivid and beautiful studies on the Roman Empire and her customs. I
am also deeply indebted to Mr. Walter Pater, Mr. J. A. Symonds, and
Mr. Saltus for many a _tournure de phrase_ and picturesque rendering
of Tacitus, Suetonious, Lampridius, and the rest." The Reverend Doctor
certainly helped himself to "Imperial Purple." Words, sentences, nay
whole paragraphs appear without the formality of quotation marks,
without any indication, indeed, save these lines in the preface, that
they are not part of the Doctor's own imagination, unless one compares
them with the style in which the rest of the book is written. "In one
instance," Mr. Saltus writes me, "he gave a paragraph of mine as his
own. Later on he added, 'as we have already said' and repeated the
paragraph. The plural struck me as singular."