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Archibald Malmaison
by Julian Hawthorne
Author of "Garth," "Sebastian Strome," "Dust," Etc.
INTRODUCTORY.
When I was a child, I used to hope my fairy-stories were true. Sincereaching years of discretion, I have preferred acknowledged fiction. Thisinconsistency, however, is probably rather apparent than real. Experiencehas taught me that the greater the fairy-story the less the truth; andcontrariwise, that the greater the truth the less the fairy-story. Inother words, the artistic graces of romance are irreconcilable with thecrude straightforwardness of fact. The idealism of childhood, believingthat all that is most beautiful must on that very account be most true,clamors accordingly for truth. The knowledge of maturity, which hasdiscovered that nothing that is true (in the sense of being existent) canbe beautiful, deprecates truth beyond everything. What happens, we find,is never what ought to happen; nor does it happen in the right way orseason. In palliation of this hardship, the sublime irony of fate grantsus our imagination, wherewith we create little pet worlds of poetry andromance, in which everything is arranged in neat harmonies and surprises,to gratify the scope of our little vision. The actual world, the realuniverse, may, indeed, be picturesque and perfect beyond the grandest ofour imaginative miniatures; but since the former can be revealed to usonly in comparatively infinitesimal portions, the miniatures still havethe best of it.
To preface a story with the information that it is true, is not, therefore,the way to recommend it. Your hearer's life, and those of his friends, areenough true stories for him; what he wants of you is merciful fiction.Destiny, to his apprehension, is always either vapid, or clumsy, orbrutal; and he feels certain that, do your worst, you can never rival thebrutality, the clumsiness, or the vapidity of destiny. If you are silly,he can at least laugh at you; if you are clumsy or brutal, he has hisremedy; and meanwhile there is always the chance that you may turn out tobe graceful and entertaining. But to bully him with facts is like askinghim to live his life over again; and the civilized human being has yet tobe found who would not rather die than do that.
No; we are all spontaneously sure that no story-teller, though he were aTimon of Athens double distilled, can ever be so unsympathetic andunnatural as destiny, who tells the only story that never winds up. Wecannot understand destiny; we never know to what lengths she may go: butthe story-teller we know inside and out; he is only a possible ourself,and we defy him to do us any serious harm. I trust I am rendering mymeaning clear, and that no one will suppose that in making this onslaughtupon truth, I have anything else in view than truth as applied to what arecalled stories. With truth scientific, moral, religious, I am at presentin nowise concerned. Only, I have no respect for the weakness that willoutrage a promising bit of narrative for the sake of keeping to the facts.Imbecile! the facts are given you, like the block of marble or theelements of a landscape, as material for the construction of a work ofart. Which would you rather be, a photographer or Michael Angelo? "_Nonvero ma ben trovato_" should be your motto; and if you refuse to killyour heroine on the Saturday night because, forsooth, she really did,despite all dramatic propriety, survive till Monday morning--why, pleaseyourself; but do not bring your inanities to me!
I have now to reconcile this profession of faith with the incongruous factthat the following story is a true one. True it is, in whole and in part;furthermore, the events took place in the present century, and within ahundred miles of London. But let me observe, in the first place, that,although a true tale, it is nevertheless strange and interesting to anunusual degree; and, secondly, that this interest and strangeness mainlydepend, not upon the succession of incidents, but upon the subjectivecondition--character it cannot be termed--of Archibald Malmaison himself.This being the case, it follows that the greater part of the objectionsabove insisted upon fall to the ground. What goes on inside a man mustneeds be accepted as it is revealed to us: to invent psychologicalattributes does not lie within the province of a romancer. His skill andpower are confined to so selecting and arranging the incidents as toprovide his psychological data with the freest possible development. Inthe present case I might easily have devised a stage and a series ofevents for Malmaison, which would have brought his mysterious affectioninto somewhat more prominent and picturesque relief. But that affection isitself so absorbing a problem, that the fashion of its statement becomesof comparatively small import; and I may add that the setting furnished bynature happens on this occasion to answer all practical purposes tolerablywell. Moreover, I am not altogether a free agent in the matter. The friendby whose permission I tell the tale is of opinion that no liberties oughtto be taken with its form, any more than with what he is pleased to callits "physiological characteristics." The main significance of thenarrative being, according to him, of a scientific or pathological kind,it would be hostile to scientific interests to depart from historicalaccuracy in its presentation. From the professional dictum of a man likeDr. Forbes Rollinson there can, of course, be no appeal, and if I am towrite the account at all, it is but fair that in so doing I should respectthe wishes of him who is the lawful proprietor of it. I have thought itbut fair to myself, however, to begin by offering this explanation. I feelmore or less hampered by the conditions enjoined upon me, and, besides, Ido not agree with Dr. Rollinson's theory of the phenomena. In the presentstate of our knowledge, no theory on such subjects can pretend to be morethan hypothetically correct; and my prejudices are opposed to what isknown as the materialistic explanation of the universe. With, all respectfor the validity of science within its proper sphere, I do not conceivethat its judgments are entitled to paramount consideration when theyattempt to settle the problems of psychology. There are mysteries which noprocess of inductive reasoning can reach.--The reader, however, will notbe decoyed blindfold into accepting as final either the Doctor's view ormine; but, after possessing himself of the facts, will be left free todraw what conclusions he may please.
As regards the matter of names, dates, and localities, Dr. Rollinson holdsthat they had better be given at full length; and here I am not disposedto differ from him. The system of blanks and initial letters was alwaysdistasteful to me; and to use fictitious names in a true story seems liketaking away with one hand what you give with another. Besides, every oneof the actors in the drama is now dead: Dr. Rollinson [1] himself beingthe only living person who is cognizant, directly, of all thecircumstances, from beginning to end. In his capacity of physician, he wasthe intimate and trusted friend of the ill-fated Malmaison householdduring upward of twenty years, and he inherited this confidential positionfrom his father. He has kindly placed at my disposal a number of hisprofessional note-books and journals, and in various places I haveincorporated with the narrative some of the information which theycontain. At other times I have inserted minor details of conversation andincident, and have endeavored to throw over the whole as "fictitious" anair as was consistent with the conscientious observance of my compact withthe Doctor. And now, without further preface, I will proceed to business.
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