I
Those who decide to read my story must prepare themselves for a major shift in their opinion considering this world as a whole. Not because I plan to present some new scientific laws or research results. I do not concern myself with such inquiry ; I am not troubled, or rather I was not troubled, by excessive ontological doubts prior to my moving back into the Pale Mansion, in the vicinity of Providence, Rhode Island.
My name is Arthur Bollingham. Before I present the account of those strange events that befell me for the reader to judge, I would like to make it clear that the story recorded here is based on my own journal, written throughout the whole experience, which eliminates the chance of factual error and confusion. There are some notes in my diary concerning events that I had not witnessed, but they have been recounted to me in detail by those who took part in them, and in so even in such cases there is no question of error or confabulation. Furthermore, I am a straightforward man, an economist by profession, and even if I have been raised by a single parent, it was not my upbringing that was the reason for my current psychiatric therapy. Besides, I am not a madman – I have only been diagnosed with a strong nervous breakdown and so I am being held under medical scrutiny for the time being. I have never been interested in the occult, any sort of forbidden knowledge or magic, a fact that I feel I must underline most strongly at this point. Almost all of my interests are related to my profession and the only ones that could be called "mystic" are an inclination towards Watteau's paintings and a taste for string quartets, both instilled by my Mother.
My Mother was French. Her name was Jeanne Doucefleur – a name that reflected her appearance very well, but was in direct opposition to her character. She was a descendant of an old aristocratic family, and their manor in Nice took my breath away when I first saw it. However, Mother was intent on fulfilling her own designs only : she parted for New York to study her beloved mathematics despite her family's wishes, and that, unfortunately, was where she met my Father. Ambrose Bollingham was attending the same University, but to this day I am ignorant as to the exact field he studied. They married after one year of acquaintance, an action heavily influenced by my Grandfather who criticized Mother openly. He was certain a woman with a degree in mathematics would never find a suitable husband, and pressured Mother into marrying right away, "while she still has the possibility." Since Mother had already finished her education, my parents moved to my Father's family home : the Pale Mansion, near Providence.
It soon became apparent just how unsuited a couple they were. Father did not really make any effort – he flew into rages whenever Mother mentioned she would like to take up work, or when she asked what it was he did all day. Their life was very far from a newlyweds' idyll when, a year into their marriage, I was born. Even before she had me, Mother thought about leaving Father quite often, especially since he alternated between blind rage when someone suggested the child might be a girl, and mad glee whenever there was any mention of having a son. Mother didn't like that, even more so since he insisted, in the best tradition of primitive, medieval patriarchs, on claiming she "was doing this on purpose," as if the poor woman could have chosen her child's sex. As I have mentioned before, I do not know what education my Father received, but I could not believe he showed such drastic signs of backwardness and ignorance.
However, I have turned out to be my Father's eagerly-expected son, even if, in many ways, I have not grown up to be the person he expected. Well, had I been a girl, a possibility which I have trouble imagining, all these events might not have taken place at all. But I digress.
(...)
