But we must not quarrel with richness of subject-matter
at a time when tenuity of purpose and meagreness of motive seem to be
becoming the dominant notes of contemporary fiction. The side-issues of
the story are so complex that it is difficult, almost impossible, to
describe the plot in any adequate manner. The interest centres round a
young girl, Helen Davenant by name, who contracts a private and
clandestine marriage with one of those mysterious and fascinating foreign
noblemen who are becoming so invaluable to writers of fiction, either in
narrative or dramatic form. Shortly after the marriage her husband is
arrested for a terrible murder committed some years before in Russia,
under the evil influence of occult magic and mesmerism. The crime was
done in a hypnotic state, and, as described by Violet Fane, seems much
more probable than the actual hypnotic experiments recorded in scientific
publications. This is the supreme advantage that fiction possesses over
fact. It can make things artistically probable; can call for imaginative
and realistic credence; can, by force of mere style, compel us to
believe. The ordinary novelists, by keeping close to the ordinary
incidents of commonplace life, seem to me to abdicate half their power.
Romance, at any rate, welcomes what is wonderful; the temper of wonder is
part of her own secret; she loves what is strange and curious. But
besides the marvels of occultism and hypnotism, there are many other
things in Helen Davenant that are worthy of study. Violet Fane writes an
admirable style. The opening chapter of the book, with its terrible
poignant tragedy, is most powerfully written, and I cannot help wondering
that the clever authoress cared to abandon, even for a moment, the superb
psychological opportunity that this chapter affords. The touches of
nature, the vivid sketches of high life, the subtle renderings of the
phases and fancies of society, are also admirably done. Helen Davenant
is certainly clever, and shows that Violet Fane can write prose that is
as good as her verse, and can look at life not merely from the point of
view of the poet, but also from the standpoint of the philosopher, the
keen observer, the fine social critic. To be a fine social critic is no
small thing, and to be able to incorporate in a work of fiction the
results of such careful observation is to achieve what is out of the
reach of many. The difficulty under which the novelists of our day
labour seems to me to be this: if they do not go into society, their
books are unreadable; and if they do go into society, they have no time
left for writing. However, Violet Fane has solved the problem.

The chronicles which I am about to present to the reader are not the
result of any conscious effort of the imagination. They are, as the
title-page indicates, records of dreams occurring at intervals during
the last ten years, and transcribed, pretty nearly in the order of
their occurrence, from my diary.