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Mr. De Morgan's Last Book

The Old Madhouse — By W. de Morgan

At the conclusion of ‘The Old Madhouse’ there is a very illuminating little note by Mrs. de Morgan explaining her husband's method of working. She relates how he prepared no plot beforehand, but ‘created his characters and then waited for them to act and evolve their own plot … he waited, as he expressed it, “to see what they would do next.”’ It is not that we consider the method itself unusual or remarkable; but what is peculiar to Mr. de Morgan is the length of time he was prepared to wait, not only his unlimited patience at spiritual railway stations, but the feeling he produces that the waiting, with all its little disturbances and attractions, is really more agreeable than the arrival. In fact the longer he can stave off what Henry James has called ‘the august emergence’ of his travellers the better he is pleased. Even when it is so long overdue as to cause anxiety and then alarm and then apprehension, he cannot surrender himself fully to these emotions so as to be overcome, but rather, as it were, takes an occasional ‘nip’ at one or the other of them to refresh his excitement and revivify his sense of anticipation. This, of course, makes it impossible for his words to be serious in ‘the grand style’; but his sense of humour is extremely engaging (especially as directed towards youth), his curiosity very reckless and unrestrained, he knows just how large a pinch of sentimentality will stimulate our jaded sympathies, and he has a taking way with the lower orders, with small children and pet animals. Added to these he has a habit, which either you like, or dislike very much, of taking the reader into his confidence, half-naively, half-slyly … a kind of ‘But aren't you yourself completely floored by this disappearance of Doctor Carteret? Can you, for the life page 71 of you, imagine what has happened to the old fellow?’ At that the young wild horses will stamp their hoofs and break away from the leisurely hand, but those of us who are inclined to enjoy an occasional small bout of mental convalescence—a day in bed, watching the lights chase the shadows—will suffer this gladly.

‘The Old Madhouse’ is Mr. de Morgan's last bouquet; Death beckoned before the final blooms had been gathered. How long the novel would have been it were rash to suggest, for there are five hundred and fifty-five pages of it and still the character who disappeared on page twenty-three is not accounted for. He is the Rev. Drury Carteret, a man six foot high, weighing twenty stone, headmaster of a grammar school; a very difficult figure to cause to melt into thin air. Nevertheless the author manages it and most convincingly; now he is there, standing in a passage at The Cedars (commonly known as The Old Madhouse because its last tenant was a doctor who took mental patients), and now he is not there—gone, vanished, never to be seen in the solid flesh again. His only relations appear to be Frederic Carteret, a nephew, whose trustee he is, and Fred's mother, his sister-in-law, with whom he has been for twenty years and more romantically and hopelessly in love. It was on Fred's behalf that he was at The Cedars; for Fred (a handsome young fellow of whom all were agreed that if he would only concentrate he could do anything) was about to be married and had chosen the long-deserted house with its vast apartments, eighteen bedrooms and dismal reputation as an ideal premier nid—especially when he hits upon the superb idea of sharing it with his great friend Charlie (or Nosey) Smith, who is similarly bound to a beautiful young creature whom he burns to watch walking up and down their own stairs. But Fred's dream disappears, too, though not so mysteriously. His young woman feels, and quite rightly, that after he has set eyes on Nosey Smith's Lucy he is never wholly hers again. This is preposterous, but it is true. So Charlie and Lucy buy the Old Madhouse, page 72 and Fred, who is, of course, perfectly safe because of his great love for Charlie, spends there all the time that he does not devote to his mother and the search for Uncle Dru. What has happened to him? Why was the body never found? But the only one of them whose anxiety is not mainly curiosity is Mrs. Carteret. Fred feels through her when he is with her, but when he is absent even his interest seems to flag. How, otherwise, could he hear a loud voice calling in the passage where the Doctor was last seen: ‘Come back, Fred!’ and be content with ‘any’ explanation, even when the phenomenon occurs three times? How could he know that the doctor's ghost, his substantial back view, is seen by nearly everybody, at the same spot, and never attempt to investigate any farther?

The truth is that the poor young man is bewitched by a ravishing serpent. Gradually, dreadfully against his will, he is drawn nearer and nearer. There comes a moment when he just escapes being swallowed, and manages to tell his mother, who rushes him to Switzerland, but it is only for a moment. The serpent follows, Fred is eaten, Charlie's happiness and faith in life destroyed, and Mrs. Carteret's unhappiness immeasurably increased. In this evil hour the ghost of the lost man not only appears, but is ushered into a little study by the housemaid who takes him for real. He has come, too late, to warn the absent Fred, but it is Charlie who takes the message and is as certain of his reality as the housemaid. His conclusion is that the doctor is mad and must be watched as he leaves the house, but while he is away for three minutes, giving orders to the gardeners to be on the look-out, the inevitable happens. No one is there on his return—no one … and here Mr. de Morgan laid aside his pen.

So there is in the middle of the picture this immense old hero, avuncular, obese and kindly, leaning on his umbrella, blowing a sostenuto blast on his nose and saying ‘char-char!’ to all the stupid questions. Everything is grouped round him, dependent on him; he is the figure page 73 who causes the roundabout to swing and glitter and turn, and yet he is a man of air.

His fate is made known to us by Mrs. de Morgan; but how much pleasanter it is to ignore the trap-door, the lunatic bath and the grating, and remain in the dark.