I proposed to him one afternoon when I was with him that he should make some inquiries as to what an American divorce would do for him. Whether it were valid or not, it might perhaps make things technically easier and enable him to marry in France with some show of legality. At the moment he paid no attention to what I said, or seemed to pay no attention, but it must have sunk into his mind, for a few days afterwards he wrote to me and said: "Is it a possible thing to get a divorce in some other country as things are?—a divorce which would allow of a legal marriage, say, in that same country. I have vaguely heard such stories, especially of Heligoland. The German novelist, Sacher Masoch, is said to have done it—said so by his first wife, who now lives in Paris." Upon receiving this letter of his I wrote and reminded him of what I had said about American divorces, and gave him all the information that I had in my mind and could collect at the moment, especially mentioning Dakota or Nevada as two States of the United States which had the most reasonable and wide-minded views of marriage and divorce. For this letter he wrote and thanked me heartily, but quoted from a letter of Thérèse which seemed to indicate, not unclearly, that she preferred him to take no steps which might lead to long legal processes. They should join their fortunes together, taking their chance as to the actual state of affairs being discovered afterwards. His great trouble, of course, was the absolute necessity of seeming in Paris to be legally married, out of regard for her relatives. Besides these connections of her family, she knew a very great number of important people in Paris and Madrid, and many of them should receive by custom the lettres de faire part. With some little trouble the financial difficulties with regard to the signing of documents were got over for the moment by a transfer of investments from Thérèse to her mother. On this being done their final determination was soon taken, and they determined, after this "marriage" was completed, to leave Paris and live somewhere in the mountains, perhaps in Savoy; and he then wrote to me: "You will be the only man in London who knows this story. Absolute silence—it goes without saying. If ever by a slip of the tongue you let a remark fall that my wife was dead, tant mieux; only no needless approach of the topic. A grave, grave responsibility mine. She is a woman to go through fire for, as you saw. An incredible woman to one who has spent his life with such creatures.... I have lately paid a bill of one pound for damage done by my wife, damage in a London house where she lived till turned out by the help of the police. Incredible stories about her. She attacked the landlord with a stick, and he had seriously to defend himself. Then she tore up shrubs and creepers in the garden. No, I have had my time of misery. It must come to an end."
In the first part of this letter which I have just quoted he says, "She is a woman to go through fire for, as you saw." This expression does not mean that I had ever met her, but that I had seen sufficient of her letters to recognise the essential fineness of her character. I urged him once more to a rapid decision, and he promised that he would let nothing delay it. Nevertheless it is perfectly characteristic of him that, having now finally decided there should be no attempt at any divorce, he proceeded instantly to play with the idea again. No doubt he was being subjected to many influences of different kinds, for I find that he sent me a letter in which he told me that it seemed to be ascertained that an American divorce and remarriage would satisfy French law. If that was so, he would move heaven and earth to get all the necessary details of the procedure. He had written to a friend in Baltimore who knew all about such matters, but he implored me to find out if there were not some book which gave all possible information about the marriage and divorce laws of all the separate States of North America. He asked: "Do you really think that I can go and present myself for a divorce without the knowledge of the other person? The proceedings must be very astounding." His knowledge of America was not equal to my own, much as I had spoken to him about that country. The proceedings in divorce courts in some of the United States have long ceased to astonish anybody. He told me, however, that he had actually heard of American lawyers advertising for would-be divorcers, and he prayed devoutly that he could get hold of such a man. I did my best to rake up for him every possible piece of information on the subject, and no doubt his friend in Baltimore, of whom I know nothing, on his part sent him information. It seemed, however, that any proceeding would involve some difficulties, and on discovering this he instantly dropped the whole scheme. I find that he wrote to me afterwards, saying: "It is probable that I leave England at the end of April. Not one syllable about me to any one, of course. The step is so bold as to be really impudent, and I often have serious fears, not, of course, on my own account. You shall hear from abroad.... If some day one could know tranquillity and all meet together decently."
After many qualms, hot and cold fits, despondency, and inspirations of courage, he at last took the decisive step. In May he was in Paris, and I think it was in that month that the "marriage" took place. I am singularly ignorant of the details, for he seemed to be somewhat reluctant to speak of them, and I do not even know whether any actual ceremony took place or not, nor am I much concerned to know. They were at any rate together, and no doubt tolerably happy. He wrote me nothing either about this subject or anything else for some time, and I was content to hear nothing. I do know, however, that they spent the summer together in Switzerland, moving from Trient, near the Col de Balme, to Locarno, on Lago Maggiore. He wrote to me once from the Rhône Valley saying that as a result of his new domestic peace and comfort, even though it were but the comfort of Swiss hotels, and owing also to the air of the mountains, which always suited him very well, he was in much better health than he had been for years past. His lung, the perpetual subject of his preoccupation, appears to have given him little trouble, although, knowing that its state was attributable in some measure to emphysema, he wrote to me for detailed explanations of that particular complaint. During the whole of this time, the only honeymoon he had ever had, he was, however, obliged to work very hard, for he was in ceaseless trouble about money. In his own words, he had to "publish furiously" in order to keep pace with his expenses. There was his wife in England, and there were also his children to be partially provided for. But for the time all went well with him. There were fears of all sorts, he told me, but they were to be forgotten as much as possible. He and Thérèse returned to Paris for the winter.
During this time, or just about this time, which was when the South African War was raging, I wrote for a weekly journal, which I used to send regularly to Paris with my own contributions marked in it. This temporary aberration into journalism so late in my literary life interested him much. He wrote to me: "In the old garret days who would have imagined the strange present? I suppose you have now a very solid footing in journalism as well as in fiction. Of course it was wise to get it, as it seems more than probable that the novelists will be starved out very soon. With Europe in a state of war, which may last for a decennium, there will be little chance for story-tellers." Then, in spite of his new happiness, his inherited or acquired pessimism got the worst of him. He adds: "I wish I had died ten years ago. I should have gone away with some hope for civilisation, of which I now have none. One's choice seems to be between death in the workhouse, or by some ruffian's bullet. As for those who come after one, it is too black to think about."
No doubt this was only his fun, or partly such. There is one phrase in Boswell's "Johnson" that he always loved amazingly; it is where Johnson declares that some poor creature had "no skill in inebriation." Maitland perhaps had no skill in inebriation when he drank at the fountain of literary pessimism, for indeed when he did drink there his views were fantastic and preposterous. As a matter of fact he was doing very well, in spite of the workhouse in Marylebone Road, from which he was now far enough. There might be little chance for story-tellers, yet his financial position, for the first time in his life, was tolerably sound. One publisher even gave him three hundred pounds on account for a book which I think was "The Best of all Things." For this book he also received five hundred dollars from America; so, for him, or indeed for almost any writer, he was very well paid. Little as the public may believe it, a sum of three hundred pounds on account of royalties is as much as any well-known man gets—unless by some chance he happens to be one of the half-dozen amazingly successful writers in the country, and they are by no means the best. It has been at my earnest solicitation that he had at last employed an agent, though, with his peculiar readiness to receive certain impressions, he had not gone to one I recommended, but to another, suddenly mentioned to him when he was just in the mood to act as I suggested. This agent worked for him very well, and Maitland was now getting five guineas a thousand words for stories, which is also a very good price for a man who does really good work. It is true that very bad work is not often well paid, but the very best work of all is often not to be sold at any price. About this time I obtained for him a very good offer for a book, and he wrote to me: "It is good to know that people care to make offers for my work. What I aim at is to get a couple of thousand pounds safely invested for my two boys. Probably I shall not succeed—and if I get the money, what security have I that it will be safe in a year or two? As likely as not the Bank of England will lie in ruins." After all, I must confess that he was skilful in the inebriation of his pessimism, for to me these phrases are delightful, in spite of the half-belief with which they were uttered.
During the last winter of 1900 he wrote to me from Paris that he proposed to be in London for a few days in the spring of 1901, but much depended on the relation, which seemed to him highly speculative, between the money he received and the money he was obliged to spend. Apparently he found Paris anything but cheap. According to his own account, he was therefore in perpetual straits, in spite of the good prices he now obtained for his work. He added in this letter: "I hope to speak with you once more, before we are both shot or starved." This proposal to come across the Channel in the spring ended in smoke. He was not able to afford it, or was reluctant to move, or more likely reluctant to expose himself to any of the troubles still waiting for him in England. So long as his good friends who were looking after his wife, and more or less looking after his children, could do their work and save him from anxiety, he was not likely to wish his peace disturbed by any discussions on the subject. When he had decided not to come he sent me a letter in which one of the paragraphs reads: "I am still trying to believe that there is a King of England, and cannot take to the idea, any more than to the moral and material ruin which seems to be coming upon the old country. Isn't it astounding that we have the courage to write books? We shall do so, I suppose, until the day when publishers find their business at an end. I fear it may not be far off." At this moment, being more or less at peace, and working with no peculiar difficulty, he declared himself in tolerable health, although he affirmed he coughed a great deal. It seemed to me that he did not think so much about his health as he had done before and was to do later, and he displayed something like his old real nature with regard to literary enterprise. It was just about this time that he reminded me of his cherished project for a story of the sixth century A.D. This, of course, was the book published after his death, "Basil." He had then begun to work upon it, and said he hoped to finish it that summer. This cheered him up wonderfully, and he ended one letter to me with: "Well, well, let us be glad that again we exchange letters with address other than that of workhouse or hospital. It is a great demand, this, to keep sane and solvent—I dare hope for nothing more." Occasionally in his letters there seemed to me to be slight indications that he was perhaps not quite so happy as he wished to be.
During that summer my wife and I were in Switzerland, and he wrote to me, while we were on the Lake of Geneva, from Vernet-les-Bains in the Eastern Pyrenees. By this time Thérèse and I, although we had never met, were accustomed to send messages to each other. It was a comfort to me to feel that he was with some one of whom I could think pleasantly, and whom I much wished to know. We had, indeed, proposed to meet somewhere on the Continent, but that fell through, partly because we were obliged to return to England earlier than we had proposed. Nevertheless, although we did not meet, and though I had some fears for him, I was tolerably happy about him and his affairs, and certainly did not anticipate the new crisis which was approaching, nor the form it would take.
CHAPTER XI
It was Maitland's custom to rely for advice and assistance on particular people at certain crises. In some cases he now appealed to Rivers; in very many he appealed to me; but when his health was particularly involved it was his custom to relapse desperately on his friend Dr. Lake. He even came to Lake on his return from Magna Graecia when he had taken Potsdam on his way home to England. He had gone there at Schmidt's strong invitation and particular desire that he should taste for once a real Westphalian ham. It is a peculiarly savage and not wholly safe custom of Germans to eat such hams uncooked, and Maitland, having fallen in with this custom, though he escaped trichinosis, procured for himself a peculiarly severe attack of indigestion. He came over from Folkestone to Lake in order to get cured. The ham apparently had not given him the lasting satisfaction which he usually got out of fine fat feeding. As I have said, Lake and Maitland had been friends from the time that Maitland's father bought his chemist's business from the Doctor's father. For they had been schoolfellows together at Hinkson's school in Mirefields. Nevertheless it was only in 1894 that they renewed their old acquaintance. Dr. Lake saw him once at Ewell, soon after a local practitioner had frightened Maitland very seriously by diagnosing phthisis and giving a gloomy prognosis. On that occasion Lake went over Maitland's chest and found very little wrong. Technically speaking, there was perhaps a slight want of expansion at the apex of each lung, and apparently some emphysema at the base of the left one, but certainly no active tubercular mischief.