XXXI
On leaving the hospital and resuming my travels, I felt sure that any
one of several magazines or newspapers would willingly have had me
conduct my campaign under its nervously commercial auspices; but a
flash-in-the-pan method did not appeal to me. Those noxious growths,
Incompetence, Abuse, and Injustice, had not only to be cut down, but
rooted out. Therefore, I clung to my determination to write a book—an
instrument of attack which, if it cuts and sears at all, does so as
long as the need exists. Inasmuch as I knew that I still had to learn
how to write, I approached my task with deliberation. I planned to do
two things: first, to crystallize my thoughts by discussion—telling
the story of my life whenever in my travels I should meet any person
who inspired my confidence; second, while the subject matter of my book
was shaping itself in my mind, to drill myself by carrying on a
letter-writing campaign. Both these things I did—as certain indulgent
friends who bore the brunt of my spoken and written discourse can
certify. I feared the less to be dubbed a bore, and I hesitated the
less, perhaps, to impose upon good-nature, because of my firm
conviction that one in a position to help the many was himself entitled
to the help of the few.
I wrote scores of letters of great length. I cared little if some of my
friends should conclude that I had been born a century too late; for,
without them as confidants, I must write with no more inspiring object
in view than the wastebasket. Indeed, I found it difficult to compose
without keeping before me the image of a friend. Having stipulated that
every letter should be returned upon demand, I wrote without
reserve—my imagination had free rein. I wrote as I thought, and I
thought as I pleased. The result was that within six months I found
myself writing with a facility which hitherto had obtained only during
elation. At first I was suspicious of this new-found and apparently
permanent ease of expression—so suspicious that I set about diagnosing
my symptoms. My self-examination convinced me that I was, in fact,
quite normal. I had no irresistible desire to write, nor was there any
suggestion of that exalted, or (technically speaking) euphoric,
light-heartedness which characterizes elation. Further, after a
prolonged period of composition, I experienced a comforting sense of
exhaustion which I had not known while elated. I therefore
concluded—and rightly—that my unwonted facility was the product of
practice. At last I found myself able to conceive an idea and
immediately transfer it to paper effectively.
In July, 1905, I came to the conclusion that the time for beginning my
book was at hand. Nevertheless, I found it difficult to set a definite
date. About this time I so arranged my itinerary that I was able to
enjoy two summer—though stormy—nights and a day at the Summit House
on Mount Washington. What better, thought I, than to begin my book on a
plane so high as to be appropriate to this noble summit? I therefore
began to compose a dedication. "To Humanity" was as far as I got. There
the Muse forsook me.
But, returning to earth and going about my business, I soon again found
myself in the midst of inspiring natural surroundings—the Berkshire
Hills. At this juncture Man came to the assistance of Nature, and
perhaps with an unconsciousness equal to her own. It was a chance
remark made by an eminent man that aroused my subconscious literary
personality to irresistible action. I had long wished to discuss my
project with a man of great reputation, and if the reputation were
international, so much the better. I desired the unbiased opinion of a
judicial mind. Opportunely, I learned that the Hon. Joseph H. Choate
was then at his summer residence at Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Mr.
Choate had never heard of me and I had no letter of introduction. The
exigencies of the occasion, however, demanded that I conjure one up, so
I wrote my own letter of introduction and sent it:
RED LION INN,
STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
August 18, 1905.
HON. JOSEPH H. CHOATE,
Stockbridge, Massachusetts.
DEAR SIR:
Though I might present myself at your door, armed with one of
society's unfair skeleton-keys—a letter of introduction—I prefer
to approach you as I now do: simply as a young man who honestly
feels entitled to at least five minutes of your time, and as many
minutes more as you care to grant because of your interest in the
subject to be discussed.
I look to you at this time for your opinion as to the value of
some ideas of mine, and the feasibility of certain schemes based
on them.
A few months ago I talked with President Hadley of Yale, and
briefly outlined my plans. He admitted that many of them seemed
feasible and would, if carried out, add much to the sum-total of
human happiness. His only criticism was that they were "too
comprehensive."
Not until I have staggered an imagination of the highest type will
I admit that I am trying to do too much. Should you refuse to see
me, believe me when I tell you that you will still be, as you are
at this moment, the unconscious possessor of my sincere respect.
Business engagements necessitate my leaving here early on Monday
next. Should you care to communicate with me, word sent in care of
this hotel will reach me promptly.
Yours very truly,
CLIFFORD W. BEERS.
Within an hour I had received a reply, in which Mr. Choate said that he
would see me at his home at ten o'clock the next morning.
At the appointed time, the door, whose lock I had picked with a pen,
opened before me and I was ushered into the presence of Mr. Choate. He
was graciousness itself—but pointed significantly at a heap of
unanswered letters lying before him. I took the hint and within ten
minutes briefly outlined my plans. After pronouncing my project a
"commendable one," Mr. Choate offered the suggestion that produced
results. "If you will submit your ideas in writing," he said, "I shall
be glad to read your manuscript and assist you in any way I can. To
consider fully your scheme would require several hours, and busy men
cannot very well give you so much time. What they can do is to read
your manuscript during their leisure moments."
Thus it was that Mr. Choate, by granting the interview, contributed to
an earlier realization of my purposes. One week later I began the
composition of this book. My action was unpremeditated, as my quitting
Boston for less attractive Worcester proves. That very day, finding
myself with a day and a half of leisure before me, I decided to tempt
the Muse and compel myself to prove that my pen was, in truth, "the
tongue of a ready writer." A stranger in the city, I went to a school
of stenography and there secured the services of a young man who,
though inexperienced in his art, was more skilled in catching thoughts
as they took wing than I was at that time in the art of setting them
free. Except in the writing of one or two conventional business
letters, never before had I dictated to a stenographer. After I had
startled him into an attentive mood by briefly outlining my past career
and present purpose, I worked without any definite plan or brief, or
reference to data. My narrative was therefore digressive and only
roughly chronological. But it served to get my material in front of me
for future shaping. At this task I hammered away three or four hours a
day for a period of five weeks.
It so happened that Mr. Choate arrived at the same hotel on the day I
took up my abode there, so that some of the toil he had inspired went
on in his proximity, if not in his presence. I carefully kept out of
his sight, however, lest he should think me a "crank" on the subject of
reform, bent on persecuting his leisure.
As the work progressed my facility increased. In fact, I soon called in
an additional stenographer to help in the snaring of my thoughts. This
excessive productivity caused me to pause and again diagnose my
condition. I could not fail now to recognize in myself symptoms hardly
distinguishable from those which had obtained eight months earlier when
it had been deemed expedient temporarily to restrict my freedom. But I
had grown wise in adversity. Rather than interrupt my manuscript short
of completion I decided to avail myself of a vacation that was due, and
remain outside my native State—this, so that well-meaning but perhaps
overzealous relatives might be spared unnecessary anxiety, and I myself
be spared possible unwarranted restrictions. I was by no means certain
as to the degree of mental excitement that would result from such
continuous mental application; nor did I much care, so long as I
accomplished my task. However, as I knew that "possession is nine
points of the law," I decided to maintain my advantage by remaining in
my literary fortress. And my resolve was further strengthened by
certain cherished sentiments expressed by John Stuart Mill in his essay
"On Liberty," which I had read and reread with an interest born of
experience.
At last the first draft of the greater part of my story was completed.
After a timely remittance (for, in strict accordance with the
traditions of the craft, I had exhausted my financial resources) I
started for home with a sigh of relief. For months I had been under the
burden of a conscious obligation. My memory, stored with information
which, if rightly used, could, I believed, brighten and even save
unhappy lives, was to me as a basket of eggs which it was my duty to
balance on a head whose poise was supposed to be none too certain. One
by one, during the preceding five weeks, I had gently lifted my
thoughts from their resting-place, until a large part of my burden had
been so shifted as to admit of its being imposed upon the public
conscience.
After I had lived over again the trials and the tortures of my
unhappiest years—which was of course necessary in ploughing and
harrowing a memory happily retentive—the completion of this first
draft left me exhausted. But after a trip to New York, whither I went
to convince my employers that I should be granted a further
leave-of-absence, I resumed work. The ground for this added favor was
that my manuscript was too crude to submit to any but intimate
acquaintances. Knowing, perhaps, that a business man with a literary
bee buzzing in his ear is, for the time, no business man at all, my
employers readily agreed that I should do as I pleased during the month
of October. They also believed me entitled to the favor, recognizing
the force of my belief that I had a high obligation to discharge.
It was under the family rooftree that I now set up my literary shop.
Nine months earlier an unwonted interest in literature and reform had
sent me to an institution. That I should now in my own home be able to
work out my destiny without unduly disturbing the peace of mind of
relatives was a considerable satisfaction. In the very room where,
during June, 1900, my reason had set out for an unknown goal, I
redictated my account of that reason's experiences.
My leave-of-absence ended, I resumed my travels eagerly; for I wished
to cool my brain by daily contact with the more prosaic minds of men of
business. I went South. For a time I banished all thoughts of my book
and project. But after some months of this change of occupation, which
I thoroughly enjoyed, I found leisure in the course of wide travels to
take up the work of elaboration and revision. A presentable draft of my
story being finally prepared, I began to submit it to all sorts and
conditions of minds (in accordance with Mill's dictum that only in that
way can the truth be obtained). In my quest for criticism and advice, I
fortunately decided to submit my manuscript to Professor William James
of Harvard University, the most eminent of American psychologists and a
masterful writer, who was then living. He expressed interest in my
project; put my manuscript with others on his desk—but was somewhat
reserved when it came to promising to read my story. He said it might
be months before he could find time to do so. Within a fortnight,
however, I received from him a characteristic letter. To me it came as
a rescuing sun, after a period of groping about for an authoritative
opinion that should put scoffers to flight. The letter read as follows:
95 IRVING ST., CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
July 1, 1906.
DEAR MR. BEERS:
Having at last "got round" to your MS., I have read it with very
great interest and admiration for both its style and its temper. I
hope you will finish it and publish it. It is the best written out
"case" that I have seen; and you no doubt have put your finger on
the weak spots of our treatment of the insane, and suggested the
right line of remedy. I have long thought that if I were a
millionaire, with money to leave for public purposes, I should
endow "Insanity" exclusively.
You were doubtless a pretty intolerable character when the maniacal
condition came on and you were bossing the universe. Not only
ordinary "tact," but a genius for diplomacy must have been needed
for avoiding rows with you; but you certainly were wrongly treated
nevertheless; and the spiteful Assistant M.D. at —— deserves to
have his name published. Your report is full of instructiveness
for doctors and attendants alike.
The most striking thing in it to my mind is the sudden conversion
of you from a delusional subject to a maniacal one—how the whole
delusional system disintegrated the moment one pin was drawn out
by your proving your brother to be genuine. I never heard of so
rapid a change in a mental system.
You speak of rewriting. Don't you do it. You can hardly improve
your book. I shall keep the MS. a week longer as I wish to impart
it to a friend.
Sincerely yours,
WM. JAMES.
Though Mr. James paid me the compliment of advising me not to rewrite
my original manuscript, I did revise it quite thoroughly before
publication. When my book was about to go to press for the first time
and since its reception by the public was problematical, I asked
permission to publish the letter already quoted. In reply, Mr. James
sent the following letter, also for publication.
95 IRVING ST., CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
November 10, 1907.
DEAR MR. BEERS:
You are welcome to use the letter I wrote to you (on July 1, 1906)
after reading the first part of your MS. in any way your judgment
prompts, whether as preface, advertisement, or anything else.
Reading the rest of it only heightens its importance in my eyes.
In style, in temper, in good taste, it is irreproachable. As for
contents, it is fit to remain in literature as a classic account
"from within" of an insane person's psychology.
The book ought to go far toward helping along that terribly needed
reform, the amelioration of the lot of the insane of our country,
for the Auxiliary Society which you propose is feasible (as
numerous examples in other fields show), and ought to work
important effects on the whole situation.
You have handled a difficult theme with great skill, and produced
a narrative of absorbing interest to scientist as well as layman.
It reads like fiction, but it is not fiction; and this I state
With best wishes for the success of the book and the plan, both of
which, I hope, will prove epoch-making, I remain,
Sincerely yours,
WM. JAMES.
Several times in my narrative, I have said that the seemingly unkind
fate that robbed me of several probably happy and healthful years had
hidden within it compensations which have offset the sufferings and the
loss of those years. Not the least of the compensations has been the
many letters sent to me by eminent men and women, who, having achieved
results in their own work, are ever responsive to the efforts of anyone
trying to reach a difficult objective. Of all the encouraging opinions
I have ever received, one has its own niche in my memory. It came from
William James a few months before his death, and will ever be an
inspiration to me. Let my excuse for revealing so complimentary a
letter be that it justifies the hopes and aspirations expressed in the
course of my narrative, and shows them to be well on the way to
accomplishment.
95 IRVING STREET, CAMBRIDGE,
January 17, 1910.
DEAR BEERS:
Your exegesis of my farewell in my last note to you was erroneous,
but I am glad it occurred, because it brought me the extreme
gratification of your letter of yesterday.
You are the most responsive and recognizant of human beings, my
dear Beers, and it "sets me up immensely" to be treated by a
practical man on practical grounds as you treat me. I inhabit such
a realm of abstractions that I only get credit for what I do in
that spectral empire; but you are not only a moral idealist and
philanthropic enthusiast (and good fellow!), but a tip-top man of
business in addition; and to have actually done anything that the
like of you can regard as having helped him is an unwonted ground
with me for self-gratulation. I think that your tenacity of
purpose, foresight, tact, temper, discretion and patience, are
beyond all praise, and I esteem it an honor to have been in any
degree associated with you. Your name will loom big hereafter, for
your movement must prosper, but mine will not survive unless some
other kind of effort of mine saves it.
I am exceedingly glad of what you say of the Connecticut Society.
May it prosper abundantly!
I thank you for your affectionate words which I return with
interest and remain, for I trust many years of this life,
Yours faithfully,
WM. JAMES.
At this point, rather than in the dusty corners of the usual preface, I
wish to express my obligation to Herbert Wescott Fisher, whom I knew at
school. It was he who led me to see my need of technical training,
neglected in earlier years. To be exact, however, I must confess that I
read rather than studied rhetoric. Close application to its rules
served only to discourage me, so I but lazily skimmed the pages of the
works which he recommended. But my friend did more than direct me to
sources. He proved to be the kindly mean between the two extremes of
stranger and intimate. I was a prophet not without honor in his eyes.
Upon an embarrassing wealth of material he brought to bear his
practical knowledge of the workmanship of writing; and my drafting of
the later parts and subsequent revisions has been so improved by the
practice received under his scrupulous direction that he has had little
fault to find with them. My debt to him is almost beyond repayment.
Nothing would please me more than to express specifically my
indebtedness to many others who have assisted me in the preparation of
my work. But, aside from calling attention to the fact that physicians
connected with the State Hospital and with the private institution
referred to—the one not run for profit—exhibited rare magnanimity
(even going so far as to write letters which helped me in my work),
and, further, acknowledging anonymously (the list is too long for
explicit mention) the invaluable advice given me by psychiatrists who
have enabled me to make my work authoritative, I must be content to
indite an all-embracing acknowledgment. Therefore, and with distinct
pleasure, I wish to say that the active encouragement of casual, but
trusted acquaintances, the inspiring indifference of unconvinced
intimates, and the kindly skepticism of indulgent relatives, who,
perforce, could do naught but obey an immutable law of blood-related
minds—all these influences have conspired to render more sure the
accomplishment of my heart's desire.
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