IV
NATURALLY I was suspicious of all about me, and became more so each
day. But not until about a month later did I refuse to recognize my
relatives. While I was at Grace Hospital, my father and eldest brother
called almost every day to see me, and, though I said little, I still
accepted them in their proper characters. I remember well a
conversation one morning with my father. The words I uttered were few,
but full of meaning. Shortly before this time my death had been
momentarily expected. I still believed that I was surely about to die
as a result of my injuries, and I wished in some way to let my father
know that, despite my apparently ignominious end, I appreciated all
that he had done for me during my life. Few men, I believe, ever had a
more painful time in expressing their feelings than I had on that
occasion. I had but little control over my mind, and my power of speech
was impaired. My father sat beside my bed. Looking up at him, I said,
"You have been a good father to me."
"I have always tried to be," was his characteristic reply.
After the broken bones had been set, and the full effects of the severe
shock I had sustained had worn off, I began to gain strength. About the
third week I was able to sit up and was occasionally taken out of doors
But each day, and especially during the hours of the night, my
delusions increased in force and variety. The world was fast becoming
to me a stage on which every human being within the range of my senses
seemed to be playing a part, and that a part which would lead not only
to my destruction (for which I cared little), but also to the ruin of
all with whom I had ever come in contact. In the month of July several
thunder-storms occurred. To me the thunder was "stage" thunder, the
lightning man-made, and the accompanying rain due to some clever
contrivance of my persecutors. There was a chapel connected with the
hospital—or at least a room where religious services were held every
Sunday. To me the hymns were funeral dirges; and the mumbled prayers,
faintly audible, were in behalf of every sufferer in the world but one.
It was my eldest brother who looked after my care and interests during
my entire illness. Toward the end of July, he informed me that I was to
be taken home again. I must have given him an incredulous look, for he
said, "Don't you think we can take you home? Well, we can and will."
Believing myself in the hands of the police, I did not see how that was
possible. Nor did I have any desire to return. That a man who had
disgraced his family should again enter his old home and expect his
relatives to treat him as though nothing were changed, was a thought
against which my soul rebelled; and, when the day came for my return, I
fought my brother and the doctor feebly as they lifted me from the bed.
But I soon submitted, was placed in a carriage, and driven to the house
I had left a month earlier.
For a few hours my mind was calmer than it had been. But my new-found
ease was soon dispelled by the appearance of a nurse—one of several
who had attended me at the hospital. Though at home and surrounded by
relatives, I jumped to the conclusion that I was still under police
surveillance. At my request my brother had promised not to engage any
nurse who had been in attendance at the hospital. The difficulty of
procuring any other led him to disregard my request, which at the time
he held simply as a whim. But he did not disregard it entirely, for the
nurse selected had merely acted as a substitute on one occasion, and
then only for about an hour. That was long enough, though, for my
memory to record her image.
Finding myself still under surveillance, I soon jumped to a second
conclusion, namely, that this was no brother of mine at all. He
instantly appeared in the light of a sinister double, acting as a
detective. After that I refused absolutely to speak to him again, and
this repudiation I extended to all other relatives, friends and
acquaintances. If the man I had accepted as my brother was spurious, so
was everybody—that was my deduction. For more than two years I was
without relatives or friends, in fact, without a world, except that one
created by my own mind from the chaos that reigned within it.
While I was at Grace Hospital, it was my sense of hearing which was the
most disturbed. But soon after I was placed in my room at home, all
of my senses became perverted. I still heard the "false voices"—which
were doubly false, for Truth no longer existed. The tricks played upon
me by my senses of taste, touch, smell, and sight were the source of
great mental anguish. None of my food had its usual flavor. This soon
led to that common delusion that some of it contained poison—not
deadly poison, for I knew that my enemies hated me too much to allow me
the boon of death, but poison sufficient to aggravate my discomfort. At
breakfast I had cantaloupe, liberally sprinkled with salt. The salt
seemed to pucker my mouth, and I believed it to be powdered alum.
Usually, with my supper, sliced peaches were served. Though there was
sugar on the peaches, salt would have done as well. Salt, sugar, and
powdered alum had become the same to me.
Familiar materials had acquired a different "feel." In the dark, the
bed sheets at times seemed like silk. As I had not been born with a
golden spoon in my mouth, or other accessories of a useless luxury, I
believed the detectives had provided these silken sheets for some
hostile purpose of their own. What that purpose was I could not divine,
and my very inability to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion stimulated
my brain to the assembling of disturbing thoughts in an almost endless
train.
Imaginary breezes struck my face, gentle, but not welcome, most of them
from parts of the room where currents of air could not possibly
originate. They seemed to come from cracks in the walls and ceiling and
annoyed me exceedingly. I thought them in some way related to that
ancient method of torture by which water is allowed to strike the
victim's forehead, a drop at a time, until death releases him. For a
while my sense of smell added to my troubles. The odor of burning human
flesh and other pestilential fumes seemed to assail me.
My sense of sight was subjected to many weird and uncanny effects.
Phantasmagoric visions made their visitations throughout the night, for
a time with such regularity that I used to await their coming with a
certain restrained curiosity. I was not entirely unaware that something
was ailing with my mind. Yet these illusions of sight I took for the
work of detectives, who sat up nights racking their brains in order to
rack and utterly wreck my own with a cruel and unfair Third Degree.
Handwriting on the wall has ever struck terror to the hearts of even
sane men. I remember as one of my most unpleasant experiences that I
began to see handwriting on the sheets of my bed staring me in the
face, and not me alone, but also the spurious relatives who often stood
or sat near me. On each fresh sheet placed over me I would soon begin
to see words, sentences, and signatures, all in my own handwriting. Yet
I could not decipher any of the words, and this fact dismayed me, for I
firmly believed that those who stood about could read them all and
found them to be incriminating evidence.
I imagined that these vision-like effects, with few exceptions, were
produced by a magic lantern controlled by some of my myriad
persecutors. The lantern was rather a cinematographic contrivance.
Moving pictures, often brilliantly colored, were thrown on the ceiling
of my room and sometimes on the sheets of my bed. Human bodies,
dismembered and gory, were one of the most common of these. All this
may have been due to the fact that, as a boy, I had fed my imagination
on the sensational news of the day as presented in the public press.
Despite the heavy penalty which I now paid for thus loading my mind, I
believe this unwise indulgence gave a breadth and variety to my
peculiar psychological experience which it otherwise would have lacked.
For with an insane ingenuity I managed to connect myself with almost
every crime of importance of which I had ever read.
Dismembered human bodies were not alone my bedfellows at this time. I
remember one vision of vivid beauty. Swarms of butterflies and large
and gorgeous moths appeared on the sheets. I wished that the usually
unkind operator would continue to show these pretty creatures. Another
pleasing vision appeared about twilight several days in succession. I
can trace it directly to impressions gained in early childhood. The
quaint pictures by Kate Greenaway—little children in attractive dress,
playing in old-fashioned gardens—would float through space just
outside my windows. The pictures were always accompanied by the gleeful
shouts of real children in the neighborhood, who, before being sent to
bed by watchful parents, devoted the last hour of the day to play. It
doubtless was their shouts that stirred my memories of childhood and
brought forth these pictures.
In my chamber of intermittent horrors and momentary delights, uncanny
occurrences were frequent. I believed there was some one who at fall of
night secreted himself under my bed. That in itself was not peculiar,
as sane persons at one time or another are troubled by that same
notion. But my bed-fellow—under the bed—was a detective; and he
spent most of his time during the night pressing pieces of ice against
my injured heels, to precipitate, as I thought, my overdue confession.
The piece of ice in the pitcher of water which usually stood on the
table sometimes clinked against the pitcher's side as its center of
gravity shifted through melting. It was many days before I reasoned out
the cause of this sound; and until I did I supposed it was produced by
some mechanical device resorted to by the detectives for a purpose.
Thus the most trifling occurrence assumed for me vast significance.
|
