XXIX
After again becoming a free man, my mind would not abandon the
miserable ones whom I had left behind. I thought with horror that my
reason had been threatened and baffled at every turn. Without malice
toward those who had had me in charge, I yet looked with abhorrence
upon the system by which I had been treated. But I realized that I
could not successfully advocate reforms in hospital management until I
had first proved to relatives and friends my ability to earn a living.
And I knew that, after securing a position in the business world, I
must first satisfy my employers before I could hope to persuade others
to join me in prosecuting the reforms I had at heart. Consequently,
during the first year of my renewed business activity (the year 1904),
I held my humanitarian project in abeyance and gave all my executive
energy to my business duties. During the first half of that year I gave
but little time to reading and writing, and none at all to drawing. In
a tentative way, however, I did occasionally discuss my project with
intimate friends; but I spoke of its consummation as a thing of the
uncertain future. At that time, though confident of accomplishing my
set purpose, I believed I should be fortunate if my projected book were
published before my fortieth year. That I was able to publish it eight
years earlier was due to one of those unlooked for combinations of
circumstances which sometimes cause a hurried change of plans.
Late in the autumn of 1904, a slight illness detained me for two weeks
in a city several hundred miles from home. The illness itself amounted
to little, and, so far as I know, had no direct bearing on later
results, except that, in giving me an enforced vacation, it afforded me
an opportunity to read several of the world's great books. One of these
was "Les Misérables." It made a deep impression on me, and I am
inclined to believe it started a train of thought which gradually grew
into a purpose so all-absorbing that I might have been overwhelmed by
it, had not my over-active imagination been brought to bay by another's
common sense. Hugo's plea for suffering Humanity—for the world's
miserable—struck a responsive chord within me. Not only did it revive
my latent desire to help the afflicted; it did more. It aroused a
consuming desire to emulate Hugo himself, by writing a book which
should arouse sympathy for and interest in that class of unfortunates
in whose behalf I felt it my peculiar right and duty to speak. I
question whether any one ever read "Les Misérables" with keener
feeling. By day I read the story until my head ached; by night I
dreamed of it.
To resolve to write a book is one thing; to write it—fortunately for
the public—is quite another. Though I wrote letters with ease, I soon
discovered that I knew nothing of the vigils or methods of writing a
book. Even then I did not attempt to predict just when I should begin
to commit my story to paper. But, a month later, a member of the firm
in whose employ I was made a remark which acted as a sudden spur. One
day, while discussing the business situation with me, he informed me
that my work had convinced him that he had made no mistake in
re-employing me when he did. Naturally I was pleased. I had vindicated
his judgment sooner than I had hoped. Aside from appreciating and
remembering his compliment, at the time I paid no more attention to it.
Not until a fortnight later did the force of his remark exert any
peculiar influence on my plans. During that time it apparently
penetrated to some subconscious part of me—a part which, on prior
occasions, had assumed such authority as to dominate my whole being.
But, in this instance, the part that became dominant did not exert an
unruly or even unwelcome influence. Full of interest in my business
affairs one week, the next I not only had no interest in them, but I
had begun even to dislike them. From a matter-of-fact man of business I
was transformed into a man whose all-absorbing thought was the
amelioration of suffering among the afflicted insane. Traveling on
this high plane of ideal humanitarianism, I could get none but a
distorted and dissatisfying view of the life I must lead if I should
continue to devote my time to the comparatively deadening routine of
commercial affairs.
Thus it was inevitable that I should focus my attention on my
humanitarian project. During the last week of December I sought
ammunition by making a visit to two of the institutions where I had
once been a patient. I went there to discuss certain phases of the
subject of reform with the doctors in authority. I was politely
received and listened to with a degree of deference which was, indeed,
gratifying. Though I realized that I was rather intense on the subject
of reform, I did not have that clear insight into my state of mind
which the doctors had. Indeed, I believe that only those expert in the
detection of symptoms of a slightly disturbed mental condition could
possibly have observed anything abnormal about me at that time. Only
when I discussed my fond project of reform did I betray an abnormal
stress of feeling. I could talk as convincingly about business as I had
at any time in my life; for even at the height of this wave of
enthusiasm I dealt at length with a certain banker who finally placed
with my employers a large contract.
After conferring with the doctors, or rather—as it proved—exhibiting
myself to them, I returned to New Haven and discussed my project with
the President of Yale University. He listened patiently—he could
scarcely do otherwise—and did me the great favor of interposing his
judgment at a time when I might have made a false move. I told him that
I intended to visit Washington at once, to enlist the aid of President
Roosevelt; also that of Mr. Hay, Secretary of State. Mr. Hadley
tactfully advised me not to approach them until I had more thoroughly
crystallized my ideas. His wise suggestion I had the wisdom to adopt.
The next day I went to New York, and on January 1st, 1905, I began to
write. Within two days I had written about fifteen thousand words—for
the most part on the subject of reforms and how to effect them. One of
the documents prepared at that time contained grandiloquent passages
that were a portent of coming events—though I was ignorant of the
fact. In writing about my project I said, "Whether I am a tool of God
or a toy of the devil, time alone will tell; but there will be no
misunderstanding Time's answer if I succeed in doing one-tenth of the
good things I hope to accomplish.... Anything which is feasible in this
philanthropic age can easily be put into practice.... A listener gets
the impression that I hope to do a hundred years' work in a day. They
are wrong there, for I'm not so in love with work—as such. I would
like though to interest so many people in the accomplishment of my
purpose that one hundred years' work might be done in a fraction of
that time. Hearty co-operation brings quick results, and once you start
a wave of enthusiasm in a sea of humanity, and have for the base of
that wave a humanitarian project of great breadth, it will travel with
irresistible and ever-increasing impulse to the ends of the
earth—which is far enough. According to Dr. ——, many of my ideas
regarding the solution of the problem under consideration are years and
years in advance of the times. I agree with him, but that is no reason
why we should not put 'the times' on board the express train of
progress and give civilization a boost to a higher level, until it
finally lands on a plateau where performance and perfection will be
synonymous terms."
Referring to the betterment of conditions, I said, "And this
improvement can never be brought about without some central
organization by means of which the best ideas in the world may be
crystallized and passed along to those in charge of this army of
afflicted ones. The methods to be used to bring about these results
must be placed on the same high level as the idea itself. No yellow
journalism or other sensational means should be resorted to. Let the
thing be worked up secretly and confidentially by a small number of men
who know their business. Then when the very best plan has been
formulated for the accomplishment of the desired results, and men of
money have been found to support the movement until it can take care of
itself, announce to the world in a dignified and effective manner the
organization and aims of the society, the name of which shall be—,
decided later.... To start the movement will not require a whole lot of
money. It will be started modestly and as financial resources of the
society increase, the field will be broadened." ... "The abuses and
correction of same is a mere detail in the general scheme." ... "It is
too early to try to interest anyone in this scheme of preventing
breakdowns, as there are other things of more importance to be brought
about first—but it will surely come in time."
"'Uncle Tom's Cabin,'" I continued, "had a very decided effect on the
question of slavery of the negro race. Why cannot a book be written
which will free the helpless slaves of all creeds and colors confined
to-day in the asylums and sanitariums throughout the world? That is,
free them from unnecessary abuses to which they are now subjected. Such
a book, I believe, can be written and I trust that I may be permitted
to live till I am wise enough to write it. Such a book might change the
attitude of the public towards those who are unfortunate enough to have
the stigma of mental incompetency put upon them. Of course, an insane
man is an insane man and while insane should be placed in an
institution for treatment, but when that man comes out he should be as
free from all taint as the man is who recovers from a contagious
disease and again takes his place in society." In conclusion, I said,
"From a scientific point of view there is a great field for
research.... Cannot some of the causes be discovered and perhaps done
away with, thereby saving the lives of many—and millions in money? It
may come about that some day something will be found which will prevent
a complete and incurable mental breakdown...."
Thus did I, as revealed by these rather crude, unrevised quotations,
somewhat prophetically, if extravagantly, box the compass that later
guided the ship of my hopes (not one of my phantom ships) into a safe
channel, and later into a safe harbor.
By way of mental diversion during these creative days at the Yale Club,
I wrote personal letters to intimate friends. One of these produced a
result unlooked for. There were about it compromising earmarks which
the friend to whom it was sent recognized. In it I said that I intended
to approach a certain man of wealth and influence who lived in New
York, with a view to securing some action that would lead to reform.
That was enough. My friend showed the letter to my brother—the one who
had acted as my conservator. He knew at once that I was in an excited
mental condition. But he could not very well judge the degree of the
excitement; for when I had last talked with him a week earlier, I had
not discussed my larger plans. Business affairs and my hope for
business advancement had then alone interested me.
I talked with President Hadley on Friday; Saturday I went to New York;
Sunday and Monday I spent at the Yale Club, writing; Tuesday, this
telltale letter fell under the prescient eye of my brother. On that day
he at once got in touch with me by telephone. We briefly discussed the
situation. He did not intimate that he believed me to be in elation. He
simply urged me not to attempt to interest anyone in my project until I
had first returned to New Haven and talked with him. Now I had already
gone so far as to invite my employers to dine with me that very night
at the Yale Club for the purpose of informing them of my plans. This I
did, believing it to be only fair that they should know what I intended
to do, so that they might dispense with my services should they feel
that my plans would in any way impair my usefulness as an employé. Of
this dinner engagement, therefore, I told my brother. But so
insistently did he urge me to defer any such conference as I proposed
until I had talked with him that, although it was too late to break the
dinner engagement, I agreed to avoid, if possible, any reference to my
project. I also agreed to return home the next day.
That night my guests honored me as agreed. For an hour or two we
discussed business conditions and affairs in general. Then, one of them
referred pointedly to my implied promise to unburden myself on a
certain subject, the nature of which he did not at the time know. I
immediately decided that it would be best to "take the bull by the
horns," submit my plans, and, if necessary, sever my connection with
the firm, should its members force me to choose (as I put it) between
themselves and Humanity. I then proceeded to unfold my scheme; and,
though I may have exhibited a decided intensity of feeling during my
discourse, at no time, I believe, did I overstep the bounds of what
appeared to be sane enthusiasm. My employers agreed that my purpose was
commendable—that no doubt I could and would eventually be able to do
much for those I had left behind in a durance I so well knew to be
vile. Their one warning was that I seemed in too great a hurry. They
expressed the opinion that I had not been long enough re-established in
business to be able to persuade people of wealth and influence to take
hold of my project. And one of my guests very aptly observed that I
could not afford to be a philanthropist, which objection I met by
saying that all I intended to do was to supply ideas for those who
could afford to apply them. The conference ended satisfactorily. My
employers disclaimed any personal objection to my proceeding with my
project, if I would, and yet remaining in their employ. They simply
urged me to "go slow." "Wait until you're forty," one of them said. I
then thought that I might do so. And perhaps I should have waited so
long, had not the events of the next two days put me on the right road
to an earlier execution of my cherished plans.
The next day, January 4th, true to my word, I went home. That night I
had a long talk with my brother. I did not suspect that a man like
myself, capable of dealing with bankers and talking for several
consecutive hours with his employers without arousing their suspicion
as to his mental condition, was to be suspected by his own relatives.
Nor, indeed, with the exception of my brother, who had read my
suspiciously excellent letter, were any of my relatives disturbed; and
he did nothing to disabuse my assurance. After our night conference he
left for his own home, casually mentioning that he would see me again
the next morning. That pleased me, for I was in a talkative mood and
craved an interested listener.
When my brother returned the next morning, I willingly accepted his
invitation to go with him to his office, where we could talk without
fear of interruption. Arrived there, I calmly sat down and prepared to
prove my whole case. I had scarcely "opened fire" when in walked a
stranger—a strapping fellow, to whom my brother immediately introduced
me. I instinctively felt that it was by no mere chance that this third
party had so suddenly appeared. My eyes at once took in the dark blue
trousers worn by the otherwise conventionally dressed stranger. That
was enough. The situation became so clear that the explanations which
followed were superfluous. In a word, I was under arrest, or in
imminent danger of being arrested. To say that I was not in the least
disconcerted would scarcely be true, for I had not divined my brother's
clever purpose in luring me to his office. But I can say, with truth,
that I was the coolest person in the room. I knew what I should do
next, but my brother and the officer of the law could only guess. The
fact is I did nothing. I calmly remained seated, awaiting the verdict
which I well knew my brother, with characteristic decision, had already
prepared. With considerable effort—for the situation, he has since
told me, was the most trying one of his life—he informed me that on
the preceding day he had talked with the doctors to whom I had so
opportunely exhibited myself a week earlier. All agreed that I was in a
state of elation which might or might not become more pronounced. They
had advised that I be persuaded to submit voluntarily to treatment in a
hospital, or that I be, if necessary, forcibly committed. On this
advice my brother had proceeded to act. And it was well so; for, though
I appreciated the fact that I was by no means in a normal state of
mind, I had not a clear enough insight into my condition to realize
that treatment and a restricted degree of liberty were what I needed,
since continued freedom might further inflame an imagination already
overwrought.
A few simple statements by my brother convinced me that it was for my
own good and the peace of mind of my relatives that I should
temporarily surrender my freedom. This I agreed to do. Perhaps the
presence of two hundred pounds of brawn and muscle, representing the
law, lent persuasiveness to my brother's words. In fact, I did assent
the more readily because I admired the thorough, sane, fair, almost
artistic manner in which my brother had brought me to bay. I am
inclined to believe that, had I suspected that a recommitment was
imminent, I should have fled to a neighboring State during the
preceding night. Fortunately, however, the right thing was done in the
right way at the right time. Though I had been the victim of a clever
stratagem, not for one moment thereafter, in any particular, was I
deceived. I was frankly told that several doctors had pronounced me
elated, and that for my own good I must submit to treatment. I was
allowed to choose between a probate court commitment which would have
"admitted me" to the State Hospital, or a "voluntary commitment" which
would enable me to enter the large private hospital where I had
previously passed from depression to elation, and had later suffered
tortures. I naturally chose the more desirable of the two disguised
blessings, and agreed to start at once for the private hospital, the
one in which I had been when depression gave way to elation. It was not
that I feared again to enter the State Hospital. I simply wished to
avoid the publicity which necessarily would have followed, for at that
time the statutes of Connecticut did not provide for voluntary
commitment to the state hospitals. Then, too, there were certain
privileges which I knew I could not enjoy in a public institution.
Having re-established myself in society and business I did not wish to
forfeit that gain; and as the doctors believed that my period of
elation would be short, it would have been sheer folly to advertise the
fact that my mental health had again fallen under suspicion.
But before starting for the hospital I imposed certain conditions. One
was that the man with the authoritative trousers should walk behind at
such a distance that no friend or acquaintance who might see my brother
and myself would suspect that I was under guard; the other was that the
doctors at the institution should agree to grant my every request, no
matter how trivial, so long as doing so could in no way work to my own
injury. My privileges were to include that of reading and writing to my
heart's content, and the procuring of such books and supplies as my
fancy might dictate. All this was agreed to. In return I agreed to
submit to the surveillance of an attendant when I went outside the
hospital grounds. This I knew would contribute to the peace of mind of
my relatives, who naturally could not rid themselves of the fear that
one so nearly normal as myself might take it into his head to leave the
State and resist further attempts at control. As I felt that I could
easily elude my keeper, should I care to escape, his presence also
contributed to my peace of mind, for I argued that the ability to
outwit my guard would atone for the offence itself.
I then started for the hospital; and I went with a willingness
surprising even to myself. A cheerful philosophy enabled me to turn an
apparently disagreeable situation into one that was positively pleasing
to me. I convinced myself that I could extract more real enjoyment from
life during the ensuing weeks within the walls of a "retreat" than I
could in the world outside. My one desire was to write, write, write.
My fingers itched for a pen. My desire to write was, I imagine, as
irresistible as is the desire of a drunkard for his dram. And the act
of writing resulted in an intoxicating pleasure composed of a mingling
of emotions that defies analysis.
That I should so calmly, almost eagerly, enter where devils might fear
to tread may surprise the reader who already has been informed of the
cruel treatment I had formerly received there. I feared nothing, for I
knew all. Having seen the worst, I knew how to avoid the pitfalls into
which, during my first experience at that hospital, I had fallen or
deliberately walked. I was confident that I should suffer no abuse or
injustice so long as the doctors in charge should live up to their
agreement and treat me with unvarying fairness. This they did, and my
quick recovery and subsequent discharge may be attributed partly to
this cause. The assistant physicians who had come in contact with me
during my first experience in this hospital were no longer there. They
had resigned some months earlier, shortly after the death of the former
superintendent. Thus it was that I started with a clean record, free
from those prejudices which so often affect the judgment of a hospital
physician who has treated a mental patient at his worst.
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