"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 cafés 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."