XXIII
I refused to be a martyr. Rebellion was my watchword. The only
difference between the doctor's opinion of me and mine of him was that
he could refuse utterance to his thoughts. Yes—there was another
difference. Mine could be expressed only in words—his in grim acts.
I repeatedly made demands for those privileges to which I knew I was
entitled. When he saw fit to grant them, I gave him perfunctory thanks.
When he refused—as he usually did—I at once poured upon his head the
vials of my wrath. One day I would be on the friendliest terms with the
doctor, the next I would upbraid him for some denial of my rights—or,
as frequently happened, for not intervening in behalf of the rights of
others.
It was after one of these wrangles that I was placed in a cold cell in
the Bull Pen at eleven o'clock one morning. Still without shoes and
with no more covering than underclothes, I was forced to stand, sit, or
lie upon a bare floor as hard and cold as the pavement outside. Not
until sundown was I provided even with a drugget, and this did little
good, for already I had become thoroughly chilled. In consequence I
contracted a severe cold which added greatly to my discomfort and might
have led to serious results had I been of less sturdy fibre.
This day was the thirteenth of December and the twenty-second of my
exile in the violent ward. I remember it distinctly for it was the
seventy-seventh birthday of my father, to whom I wished to write a
congratulatory letter. This had been my custom for years when absent
from home on that anniversary. And well do I remember when, and under
what conditions, I asked the doctor for permission. It was night. I was
flat on my drugget-bed. My cell was lighted only by the feeble rays of
a lantern held by an attendant to the doctor on this his regular visit.
At first I couched my request in polite language. The doctor merely
refused to grant it. I then put forth my plea in a way calculated to
arouse sympathy. He remained unmoved. I then pointed out that he was
defying the law of the State which provided that a patient should have
stationery—a statute, the spirit of which at least meant that he
should be permitted to communicate with his conservator. It was now
three weeks since I had been permitted to write or send a letter to
anyone. Contrary to my custom, therefore, I made my final demand in the
form of a concession. I promised that I would write only a conventional
note of congratulation, making no mention whatever of my plight. It was
a fair offer; but to accept it would have been an implied admission
that there was something to conceal, and for this, if for no other
reason, it was refused.
Thus, day after day, I was repressed in a manner which probably would
have driven many a sane man to violence. Yet the doctor would
frequently exhort me to play the gentleman. Were good manners and sweet
submission ever the product of such treatment? Deprived of my clothes,
of sufficient food, of warmth, of all sane companionship and of my
liberty, I told those in authority that so long as they should continue
to treat me as the vilest of criminals, I should do my best to complete
the illusion. The burden of proving my sanity was placed upon me. I was
told that so soon as I became polite and meek and lowly I should find
myself in possession of my clothes and of certain privileges. In every
instance I must earn my reward before being entrusted with it. If the
doctor, instead of demanding of me all the negative virtues in the
catalogue of spineless saints, had given me my clothes on the condition
that they would be taken from me again if I so much as removed a
button, his course would doubtless have been productive of good
results. Thus I might have had my clothes three weeks earlier than I
did, and so been spared much suffering from the cold.
I clamored daily for a lead pencil. This little luxury represents the
margin of happiness for hundreds of the patients, just as a plug or
package of tobacco represents the margin of happiness for thousands of
others; but for seven weeks no doctor or attendant gave me one. To be
sure, by reason of my somewhat exceptional persistence and ingenuity, I
managed to be always in possession of some substitute for a pencil,
surreptitiously obtained, a fact which no doubt had something to do
with the doctor's indifference to my request. But my inability to
secure a pencil in a legitimate way was a needless source of annoyance
to me, and many of my verbal indiscretions were directly inspired by
the doctor's continued refusal.
It was an assistant physician, other than the one regularly in charge
of my case, who at last relented and presented me with a good, whole
lead pencil. By so doing he placed himself high on my list of
benefactors; for that little shaft-like implement, magnified by my
lively appreciation, became as the very axis of the earth.
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