The Paliser Case (1919) is focused on money, deceit and murder by a once popular American writer. Tragedy and society comedy, and the blasé life style of millionaires are overlaid with the plight of a young singer pursued by a crazy rich boy.
Edgar Saltus (1855-1921) was an American writer known for his elaborate prose style. His works reportedly paralleled those by European decadent authors such as Huysmans, D'Annuzio and Wilde. Saltus wrote two books of philosophy, The Philosophy of Disenchantment and The Anatomy of Negation. Saltus fell into obscurity after his death. His novel The Paliser Case was adapted to film in 1920, and his novel Daughters of the Rich was filmed in 1923.
Edgar Evertson Saltus was an American writer known for his highly refined prose style. Saltus received a law degree from Columbia University in 1880. Saltus wrote two books of philosophy, The Philosophy of Disenchantment and The Anatomy of Negation. Acclaimed by fellow writers in his day, Saltus fell into obscurity after his death.
Possibly "inspired" by the violent relationship Harry Thaw, a certified lunatic, had w Gibson Girl Evelyn Nesbit c 1905 (that resulted in Thaw's murder of Stanford White), this irrelevant romance from 1919 stirred my interest because I heard it was witty (no) and had a murder in a box at the Metropolitan Opera (yes: "Aida," last act, Caruso singing). However, the fatal Paliser stabbing is only reported by newspapers after the fact, the author doesnt put us in the box, so it's as suspenseful as a work by Grace Livingston Hill, and less sexy.
In fact, there's no sex at all, although a nasty cad, courting a virginal heroine, tricks her into a bogus marriage that lasts 5 days. Was the marriage consummated? She doesnt seem to know, she's just pissed off. The marital prank could be funny, should be funny; instead we get Victorian scruples and lumbering sincerity. The plot and characters are perfect for Restoration Comedy: here are Volpone, Tattle, Pinchwife, Lumpkin, Lady Loveit and so on...but author Saltus - stuffed w pretention - hasnt a sense of humor; he just splutters like a Model T for several hundred pages, and burps that "Love is a fermentation of the molecules of the imagination." You can't make this up.
Our tedious heroine connects w a stalwart Wall St broker and tells him, her voice choked, "The growth of love is slow. You cannot love me now as I love you." (She's begging for a bitch-slap!) So he joins W1, "as a whirlwind tossed his thoughts." Let's get back to "Aida," Act IV, and the dark vault in the Temple of Vulcan: "O terre addio."