IX
It was at the sanatorium that my ankles were finally restored to a
semblance of their former utility. They were there subjected to a
course of heroic treatment; but as to-day they permit me to walk, run,
dance, and play tennis and golf, as do those who have never been
crippled, my hours of torture endured under my first attempts to walk
are almost pleasant to recall. About five months from the date of my
injury I was allowed, or rather compelled, to place my feet on the
floor and attempt to walk. My ankles were still swollen, absolutely
without action, and acutely sensitive to the slightest pressure. From
the time they were hurt until I again began to talk—two years later—I
asked not one question as to the probability of my ever regaining the
use of them. The fact was, I never expected to walk naturally again.
The desire of the doctors to have me walk I believed to be inspired by
the detectives, of whom, indeed, I supposed the doctor himself to be
one. Had there been any confession to make, I am sure it would have
been yielded under the stress of this ultimate torture. The million
needle points which, just prior to my mental collapse, seemed to goad
my brain, now centered their unwelcome attention on the soles of my
feet. Had the floor been studded with minute stilettos my sufferings
could hardly have been more intense. For several weeks assistance was
necessary with each attempt to walk, and each attempt was an ordeal.
Sweat stood in beads on either foot, wrung from my blood by agony.
Believing that it would be only a question of time when I should be
tried, condemned, and executed for some one of my countless felonies, I
thought that the attempt to prevent my continuing a cripple for the
brief remainder of my days was prompted by anything but benevolence.
The superintendent would have proved himself more humane had he not
peremptorily ordered my attendant to discontinue the use of a support
which, until the plaster bandages were removed, had enabled me to keep
my legs in a horizontal position when I sat up. His order was that I
should put my legs down and keep them down, whether it hurt or not. The
pain was of course intense when the blood again began to circulate
freely through tissues long unused to its full pressure, and so evident
was my distress that the attendant ignored the doctor's command and
secretly favored me. He would remove the forbidden support for only a
few minutes at a time, gradually lengthening the intervals until at
last I was able to do without the support entirely. Before long and
each day for several weeks I was forced at first to stagger and finally
to walk across the room and back to the bed. The distance was increased
as the pain diminished, until I was able to walk without more
discomfort than a comparatively pleasant sensation of lameness. For at
least two months after my feet first touched the floor I had to be
carried up and downstairs, and for several months longer I went
flat-footed.
Delusions of persecution—which include "delusions of
self-reference"—though a source of annoyance while I was in an
inactive state, annoyed and distressed me even more when I began to
move about and was obliged to associate with other patients. To my
mind, not only were the doctors and attendants detectives; each patient
was a detective and the whole institution was a part of the Third
Degree. Scarcely any remark was made in my presence that I could not
twist into a cleverly veiled reference to myself. In each person I
could see a resemblance to persons I had known, or to the principals or
victims of the crimes with which I imagined myself charged. I refused
to read; for to read veiled charges and fail to assert my innocence was
to incriminate both myself and others. But I looked with longing
glances upon all printed matter and, as my curiosity was continually
piqued, this enforced abstinence grew to be well-nigh intolerable.
It became again necessary to the family purse that every possible
saving be made. Accordingly, I was transferred from the main building,
where I had a private room and a special attendant, to a ward where I
was to mingle, under an aggregate sort of supervision, with fifteen or
twenty other patients. Here I had no special attendant by day, though
one slept in my room at night.
Of this ward I had heard alarming reports—and these from the lips of
several attendants. I was, therefore, greatly disturbed at the proposed
change. But, the transfer once accomplished, after a few days I really
liked my new quarters better than the old. During the entire time I
remained at the sanatorium I was more alert mentally than I gave
evidence of being. But not until after my removal to this ward, where I
was left alone for hours every day, did I dare to show my alertness.
Here I even went so far on one occasion as to joke with the attendant
in charge. He had been trying to persuade me to take a bath. I refused,
mainly because I did not like the looks of the bath room, which, with
its cement floor and central drain, resembled the room in which
vehicles are washed in a modern stable. After all else had failed, the
attendant tried the rôle of sympathizer.
"Now I know just how you feel," he said, "I can put myself in your
place."
"Well, if you can, do it and take the bath yourself," was my retort.
The remark is brilliant by contrast with the dismal source from which
it escaped. "Escaped" is the word; for the fear that I should hasten my
trial by exhibiting too great a gain in health, mental or physical, was
already upon me; and it controlled much of my conduct during the
succeeding months of depression.
Having now no special attendant, I spent many hours in my room, alone,
but not absolutely alone, for somewhere the eye of a detective was
evermore upon me. Comparative solitude, however, gave me courage; and
soon I began to read, regardless of consequences. During the entire
period of my depression, every publication seemed to have been written
and printed for me, and me alone. Books, magazines, and newspapers
seemed to be special editions. The fact that I well knew how inordinate
would be the cost of such a procedure in no way shook my belief in it.
Indeed, that I was costing my persecutors fabulous amounts of money was
a source of secret satisfaction. My belief in special editions of
newspapers was strengthened by items which seemed too trivial to
warrant publication in any except editions issued for a special
purpose. I recall a seemingly absurd advertisement, in which the
phrase, "Green Bluefish," appeared. At the time I did not know that
"green" was a term used to denote "fresh" or "unsalted."
During the earliest stages of my illness I had lost count of time, and
the calendar did not right itself until the day when I largely regained
my reason. Meanwhile, the date on each newspaper was, according to my
reckoning, two weeks out of the way. This confirmed my belief in the
special editions as a part of the Third Degree.
Most sane people think that no insane person can reason logically. But
this is not so. Upon unreasonable premises I made most reasonable
deductions, and that at the time when my mind was in its most disturbed
condition. Had the newspapers which I read on the day which I supposed
to be February 1st borne a January date, I might not then, for so long
a time, have believed in special editions. Probably I should have
inferred that the regular editions had been held back. But the
newspapers I had were dated about two weeks ahead. Now if a sane
person on February 1st receives a newspaper dated February 14th, be
will be fully justified in thinking something wrong, either with the
publication or with himself. But the shifted calendar which had planted
itself in my mind meant as much to me as the true calendar does to any
sane business man. During the seven hundred and ninety-eight days of
depression I drew countless incorrect deductions. But, such as they
were, they were deductions, and essentially the mental process was not
other than that which takes place in a well-ordered mind.
My gradually increasing vitality, although it increased my fear of
trial, impelled me to take new risks. I began to read not only
newspapers, but also such books as were placed within my reach. Yet had
they not been placed there, I should have gone without them, for I
would never ask even for what I greatly desired and knew I could have
for the asking.
Whatever love of literature I now have dates from this time, when I was
a mental incompetent and confined in an institution. Lying on a shelf
in my room was a book by George Eliot. For several days I cast longing
glances at it and finally plucked up the courage to take little nibbles
now and then. These were so good that I grew bold and at last began
openly to read the book. Its contents at the time made but little
impression on my mind, but I enjoyed it. I read also some of Addison's
essays; and had I been fortunate enough to have made myself familiar
with these earlier in life, I might have been spared the delusion that
I could detect, in many passages, the altering hand of my persecutors.
The friendly attendant, from whom I was now separated, tried to send
his favors after me into my new quarters. At first he came in person to
see me, but the superintendent soon forbade that, and also ordered him
not to communicate with me in any way. It was this disagreement, and
others naturally arising between such a doctor and such an attendant,
that soon brought about the discharge of the latter. But "discharge" is
hardly the word, for he had become disgusted with the institution, and
had remained so long only because of his interest in me. Upon leaving,
he informed the owner that he would soon cause my removal from the
institution. This he did. I left the sanatorium in March, 1901, and
remained for three months in the home of this kindly fellow, who lived
with a grandmother and an aunt in Wallingford, a town not far from New
Haven.
It is not to be inferred that I entertained any affection for my
friendly keeper. I continued to regard him as an enemy; and my life at
his home became a monotonous round of displeasure. I took my three
meals a day. I would sit listlessly for hours at a time in the house.
Daily I went out—accompanied, of course—for short walks about the
town. These were not enjoyable. I believed everybody was familiar with
my black record and expected me to be put to death. Indeed, I wondered
why passers-by did not revile or even stone me. Once I was sure I heard
a little girl call me "Traitor!" That, I believe, was my last "false
voice," but it made such an impression that I can even now recall
vividly the appearance of that dreadful child. It was not surprising
that a piece of rope, old and frayed, which someone had carelessly
thrown on a hedge by a cemetery that I sometimes passed, had for me
great significance.
During these three months I again refused to read books, though within
my reach, but I sometimes read newspapers. Still I would not speak,
except under some unusual stress of emotion. The only time I took the
initiative in this regard while living in the home of my attendant was
on a bitterly cold and snowy day when I had the temerity to tell him
that the wind had blown the blanket from a horse that had been standing
for a long time in front of the house. The owner had come inside to
transact some business with my attendant's relatives. In appearance he
reminded me of the uncle to whom this book is dedicated. I imagined the
mysterious caller was impersonating him and, by one of my curious
mental processes, I deduced that it was incumbent on me to do for the
dumb beast outside what I knew my uncle would have done had he been
aware of its plight. My reputation for decency of feeling I believed to
be gone forever; but I could not bear, in this situation, to be
unworthy of my uncle, who, among those who knew him, was famous for his
kindliness and humanity.
My attendant and his relatives were very kind and very patient, for I
was still intractable. But their efforts to make me comfortable, so far
as they had any effect, made keener my desire to kill myself. I shrank
from death; but I preferred to die by my own hand and take the blame
for it, rather than to be executed and bring lasting disgrace on my
family, friends, and, I may add with truth, on Yale. For I reasoned
that parents throughout the country would withhold their sons from a
university which numbered among its graduates such a despicable being.
But from any tragic act I was providentially restrained by the very
delusion which gave birth to the desire—in a way which signally
appeared on a later and, to me, a memorable day.
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