XXVI
Early in March, 1902, having lived in a violent ward for nearly four
months, I was transferred to another—a ward quite as orderly as the
best in the institution, though less attractively furnished than the
one in which I had first been placed. Here also I had a room to myself;
in this instance, however, the room had not only a bed, but a chair and
a wardrobe. With this elaborate equipment I was soon able to convert my
room into a veritable studio. Whereas in the violent ward it had been
necessary for me to hide my writing and drawing materials to keep other
patients from taking them, in my new abode I was able to conduct my
literary and artistic pursuits without the annoyances which had been
inevitable during the preceding months.
Soon after my transfer to this ward I was permitted to go out of doors
and walk to the business section of the city, two miles distant. But on
these walks I was always accompanied. To one who has never surrendered
any part of his liberty such surveillance would no doubt seem irksome;
yet, to me, after being so closely confined, the ever-present attendant
seemed a companion rather than a guard. These excursions into the sane
and free world were not only a great pleasure, they were almost a
tonic. To rub elbows with normal people tended to restore my mental
poise. That the casual passer-by had no way of knowing that I was a
patient, out for a walk about the city, helped me gain that
self-confidence so essential to the success of one about to re-enter a
world from which he had long been cut off.
My first trips to the city were made primarily for the purpose of
supplying myself with writing and drawing materials. While enjoying
these welcome tastes of liberty, on more than one occasion I
surreptitiously mailed certain letters which I did not dare entrust to
the doctor. Under ordinary circumstances such an act on the part of one
enjoying a special privilege would be dishonorable. But the
circumstances that then obtained were not ordinary. I was simply
protecting myself against what I believed to be unjust and illegal
confiscation of letters.
I have already described how an assistant physician arbitrarily denied
my request that I be permitted to send a birthday letter to my father,
thereby not merely exceeding his authority and ignoring decency, but,
consciously or unconsciously, stifling a sane impulse. That this should
occur while I was confined in the Bull Pen was, perhaps, not so
surprising. But about four months later, while I was in one of the best
wards, a similar, though less open, interference occurred. At this time
I was so nearly normal that my discharge was a question of but a very
few months. Anticipating my return to my old world, I decided to renew
former relationships. Accordingly, my brother, at my suggestion,
informed certain friends that I should be pleased to receive letters
from them. They soon wrote. In the meantime the doctor had been
instructed to deliver to me any and all letters that might arrive. He
did so for a time, and that without censoring. As was to be expected,
after nearly three almost letterless years, I found rare delight in
replying to my reawakened correspondents. Yet some of these letters,
written for the deliberate purpose of re-establishing myself in the
sane world, were destroyed by the doctor in authority. At the time, not
one word did he say to me about the matter. I had handed him for
mailing certain letters, unsealed. He did not mail them, nor did he
forward them to my conservator as he should have done, and had earlier
agreed to do with all letters which he could not see his way clear to
approve. It was fully a month before I learned that my friends had not
received my replies to their letters. Then I accused the doctor of
destroying them, and he, with belated frankness, admitted that he had
done so. He offered no better excuse than the mere statement that he
did not approve of the sentiments I had expressed. Another flagrant
instance was that of a letter addressed to me in reply to one of those
which I had posted surreptitiously. The person to whom I wrote, a
friend of years' standing, later informed me that he had sent the
reply. I never received it. Neither did my conservator. Were it not
that I feel absolutely sure that the letter in question was received at
the hospital and destroyed, I should not now raise this point. But such
a point, if raised at all, must of course be made without that direct
proof which can come only from the man guilty of an act which in the
sane world is regarded as odious and criminal.
I therefore need not dilate on the reasons which made it necessary for
me to smuggle, as it were, to the Governor of the State, a letter of
complaint and instruction. This letter was written shortly after my
transfer from the violent ward. The abuses of that ward were still
fresh in my mind, and the memory of distressing scenes was kept vivid
by reports reaching me from friends who were still confined there.
These private sleuths of mine I talked with at the evening
entertainments or at other gatherings. From them I learned that
brutality had become more rife, if anything, since I had left the ward.
Realizing that my crusade against the physical abuse of patients thus
far had proved of no avail, I determined to go over the heads of the
doctors and appeal to the ex-officio head of the institution, the
Governor of the State.
On March 12th, 1903, I wrote a letter which so disturbed the Governor
that he immediately set about an informal investigation of some of my
charges. Despite its prolixity, its unconventional form and what, under
other circumstances, would be characterized as almost diabolic
impudence and familiarity, my letter, as he said months later when I
talked with him, "rang true." The writing of it was an easy matter; in
fact, so easy, because of the pressure of truth under which I was
laboring at the time, that it embodied a compelling spontaneity.
The mailing of it was not so easy. I knew that the only sure way of
getting my thoughts before the Governor was to do my own mailing.
Naturally no doctor could be trusted to send an indictment against
himself and his colleagues to the one man in the State who had the
power to institute such an investigation as might make it necessary for
all to seek employment elsewhere. In my frame of mind, to wish to mail
my letter was to know how to accomplish the wish. The letter was in
reality a booklet. I had thoughtfully used waterproof India drawing ink
in writing it, in order, perhaps, that a remote posterity might not be
deprived of the document. The booklet consisted of thirty-two
eight-by-ten-inch pages of heavy white drawing paper. These I sewed
together. In planning the form of my letter I had forgotten to consider
the slot of a letter-box of average size. Therefore I had to adopt an
unusual method of getting the letter into the mails. My expedient was
simple. There was in the town a certain shop where I traded. At my
request the doctor gave me permission to go there for supplies. I was
of course accompanied by an attendant, who little suspected what was
under my vest. To conceal and carry my letter in that place had been
easy; but to get rid of it after reaching my goal was another matter.
Watching my opportunity, I slipped the missive between the leaves of a
copy of the Saturday Evening Post. This I did, believing that some
purchaser would soon discover the letter and mail it. Then I left the
shop.
On the back of the wrapper I had endorsed the following words:
"Mr. Postmaster: This package is unsealed. Nevertheless it is
first-class matter. Everything I write is necessarily first class.
I have affixed two two-cent stamps. If extra postage is needed you
will do the Governor a favor if you will put the extra postage on.
Or affix 'due' stamps, and let the Governor pay his own bills, as
he can well afford to. If you want to know who I am, just ask his
Excellency, and oblige,
Yours truly,
?"
Flanking this notice, I had arrayed other forceful sentiments, as
follows—taken from statutes which I had framed for the occasion:
"Any person finding letter or package—duly stamped and
addressed—must mail same as said letter or package is really
in hands of the Government the moment the stamp is affixed."
And again:
"Failure to comply with Federal Statute which forbids any one
except addressee to open a letter renders one liable to imprisonment
in State Prison."
My letter reached the Governor. One of the clerks at the shop in which
I left the missive found and mailed it. From him I afterwards learned
that my unique instructions had piqued his curiosity, as well as
compelled my wished-for action. Assuming that the reader's curiosity
may likewise have been piqued, I shall quote certain passages from this
four-thousand-word epistle of protest. The opening sentence read as
follows: "If you have had the courage to read the above" (referring to
an unconventional heading) "I hope you will read on to the end of this
epistle—thereby displaying real Christian fortitude and learning a few
facts which I think should be brought to your attention."
I then introduced myself, mentioning a few common friends, by way of
indicating that I was not without influential political connections,
and proceeded as follows: "I take pleasure in informing you that I am
in the Crazy Business and am holding my job down with ease and a fair
degree of grace. Being in the Crazy Business, I understand certain
phases of the business about which you know nothing. You as Governor
are at present 'head devil' in this 'hell,' though I know you are
unconsciously acting as 'His Majesty's' 1st Lieutenant."
I then launched into my arraignment of the treatment of the insane. The
method, I declared, was "wrong from start to finish. The abuses
existing here exist in every other institution of the kind in the
country. They are all alike—though some of them are of course worse
than others. Hell is hell the world over, and I might also add that
hell is only a great big bunch of disagreeable details anyway. That's
all an Insane Asylum is. If you don't believe it, just go crazy and
take up your abode here. In writing this letter I am laboring under no
mental excitement. I am no longer subjected to the abuses about which I
complain. I am well and happy. In fact I never was so happy as I am
now. Whether I am in perfect mental health or not, I shall leave for
you to decide. If I am insane to-day I hope I may never recover my
Reason."
First I assailed the management of the private institution where I had
been strait-jacketed and referred to "Jekyll-Hyde" as "Dr.——, M.D.
(Mentally Deranged)." Then followed an account of the strait-jacket
experience; then an account of abuses at the State Hospital. I
described in detail the most brutal assault that fell to my lot. In
summing up I said, "The attendants claimed next day that I had called
them certain names. Maybe I did—though I don't believe I did at all.
What of it? This is no young ladies' boarding school. Should a man be
nearly killed because he swears at attendants who swear like pirates? I
have seen at least fifteen men, many of them mental and physical
wrecks, assaulted just as brutally as I was, and usually without a
cause. I know that men's lives have been shortened by these brutal
assaults. And that is only a polite way of saying that murder has been
committed here." Turning next to the matter of the women's wards, I
said: "A patient in this ward—a man in his right mind, who leaves here
on Tuesday next—told me that a woman patient told him that she had
seen many a helpless woman dragged along the floor by her hair, and had
also seen them choked by attendants who used a wet towel as a sort of
garrote. I have been through the mill and believe every word of the
abuse. You will perhaps doubt it, as it seems impossible. Bear in mind,
though, that everything bad and disagreeable is possible in an Insane
Asylum."
It will be observed that I was shrewd enough to qualify a charge I
could not prove.
When I came to the matter of the Bull Pen, I wasted no words: "The Bull
Pen," I wrote, "is a pocket edition of the New York Stock Exchange
during a panic."
I next pointed out the difficulties a patient must overcome in mailing
letters: "It is impossible for any one to send a letter to you via
the office. The letter would be consigned to the waste-basket—unless
it was a particularly crazy letter—in which case it might reach you,
as you would then pay no attention to it. But a sane letter and a
true letter, telling about the abuses which exist here would stand no
show of being mailed. The way in which mail is tampered with by the
medical staff is contemptible."
I then described my stratagem in mailing my letter to the Governor.
Discovering that I had left a page of my epistolary booklet blank, I drew
upon it a copy of Rembrandt's Anatomy Lesson, and under it wrote: "This
page was skipped by mistake. Had to fight fifty-three days to get writing
paper and I hate to waste any space—hence the masterpiece—drawn in
five minutes. Never drew a line till September 26 (last) and never took
lessons in my life. I think you will readily believe my statement."
Continuing in the same half-bantering vein, I said: "I intend to
immortalize all members of medical staff of State Hospital for
Insane—when I illustrate my Inferno, which, when written, will make
Dante's Divine Comedy look like a French Farce."
I then outlined my plans for reform: "Whether my suggestions meet with
approval or not," I wrote, "will not affect the result—though
opposition on your part would perhaps delay reforms. I have decided to
devote the next few years of my life to correcting abuses now in
existence in every asylum in this country. I know how these abuses can
be corrected and I intend—later on, when I understand the subject
better—to draw up a Bill of Rights for the Insane. Every State in the
Union will pass it, because it will be founded on the Golden Rule. I am
desirous of having the co-operation of the Governor of Connecticut, but
if my plans do not appeal to him I shall deal directly with his only
superior, the President of the United States. When Theodore Roosevelt
hears my story his blood will boil. I would write to him now, but I am
afraid he would jump in and correct abuses too quickly. And by doing it
too quickly too little good would be accomplished."
Waxing crafty, yet, as I believed, writing truth, I continued: "I need
money badly, and if I cared to, I could sell my information and
services to the New York World or New York Journal for a large
amount. But I do not intend to advertise Connecticut as a Hell-hole of
Iniquity, Insanity, and Injustice. If the facts appeared in the public
press at this time, Connecticut would lose caste with her sister
States. And they would profit by Connecticut's disgrace and correct the
abuses before they could be put on the rack. As these conditions
prevail throughout the country, there is no reason why Connecticut
should get all the abuse and criticism which would follow any such
revelation of disgusting abuse; such inhuman treatment of human wrecks.
If publicity is necessary to force you to act—and I am sure it will
not be necessary—I shall apply for a writ of habeas corpus, and, in
proving my sanity to a jury, I shall incidentally prove your own
incompetence. Permitting such a whirl-wind reformer to drag
Connecticut's disgrace into open court would prove your incompetence."
For several obvious reasons it is well that I did not at that time
attempt to convince a jury that I was mentally sound. The mere
outlining of my ambitious scheme for reform would have caused my
immediate return to the hospital. That scheme, however, was a sound and
feasible one, as later events have proved. But, taking hold of me, as
it did, while my imagination was at white heat, I was impelled to
attack my problem with compromising energy and, for a time, in a manner
so unconvincing as to obscure the essential sanity of my cherished
purpose.
I closed my letter as follows: "No doubt you will consider certain
parts of this letter rather 'fresh.' I apologize for any such passages
now, but, as I have an Insane License, I do not hesitate to say what I
think. What's the use when one is caged like a criminal?
"P.S. This letter is a confidential one—and is to be returned to the
writer upon demand."
The letter was eventually forwarded to my conservator and is now in my
possession.
As a result of my protest the Governor immediately interrogated the
superintendent of the institution where "Jekyll-Hyde" had tortured me.
Until he laid before the superintendent my charges against his
assistant, the doctor in authority had not even suspected that I had
been tortured. This superintendent took pride in his institution. He
was sensitive to criticism and it was natural that he should strive to
palliate the offence of his subordinate. He said that I was a most
troublesome patient, which was, indeed, the truth; for I had always a
way of my own for doing the things that worried those in charge of me.
In a word, I brought to bear upon the situation what I have previously
referred to as "an uncanny admixture of sanity."
The Governor did not meet the assistant physician who had maltreated
me. The reprimand, if there was to be any, was left to the
superintendent to administer.
In my letter to the Governor I had laid more stress upon the abuses to
which I had been subjected at this private institution than I had upon
conditions at the State Hospital where I was when I wrote to him. This
may have had some effect on the action he took, or rather failed to
take. At any rate, as to the State Hospital, no action was taken. Not
even a word of warning was sent to the officials, as I later learned;
for before leaving the institution I asked them.
Though my letter did not bring about an investigation, it was not
altogether without results. Naturally, it was with considerable
satisfaction that I informed the doctors that I had outwitted them, and
it was with even greater satisfaction that I now saw those in authority
make a determined, if temporary, effort to protect helpless patients
against the cruelties of attendants. The moment the doctors were
convinced that I had gone over their heads and had sent a
characteristic letter of protest to the Governor of the State, that
moment they began to protect themselves with an energy born of a
realization of their former shortcomings. Whether or not the management
in question ever admitted that their unwonted activity was due to my
successful stratagem, the fact remains that the summary discharge of
several attendants accused and proved guilty of brutality immediately
followed and for a while put a stop to wanton assaults against which
for a period of four months I had protested in vain. Patients who still
lived in the violent ward told me that comparative peace reigned about
this time.
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