IN THE LUNATIC ASYLUM
O Father, we beseech Thee, sustain and comfort Thy servants who have lost the powers of reason and self-control, suffer not the Evil One to vex them, and in Thy mercy deliver them from the darkness of this world....—Prayer for Lunatics.
I passed through the spacious grounds of A—— Asylum on my way to visit the patients chargeable to our parish. A group of men were playing Rugby football, but even to the eye of the tyro there was something wrong with the game—there was no unity, no enthusiasm; some lurking sinister presence—grotesque, hideous, that made one shudder—worse than strait-waistcoat and padded-room. In conversation the lunatics struck me as no worse mentally than the rest of us outside. Most of them complained of unlawful detention, and begged pathetically for freedom. "It is a dreadful place; why should I be kept here? We have just had a harvest festival, but I'm not thankful. What have we to do with harvest festivals?"
"I am quite well," said a tall, powerful-looking man; "I assure you there is nothing the matter with me," and as I was chronicling the fact in my notebook a fiendish light blazed in his eyes—the hate of hates, red-gleaming with fury and malice, as if all the devils in hell were mocking behind his eyes. For a moment that seemed an eternity I watched, paralysed, and then two stout warders pinioned him from behind and led him away, swearing. "Homicidal mania," said the doctor shortly; "we have to be always on the watch."
I interviewed the man who would be King, and heard his theory as to the illegal usurpation of the Throne by the Guelph family. I saw a new Redeemer of the world, and the woman who had conducted one of the great lawsuits of last century.
The women were more talkative, and complained volubly of captivity. A few were sullen and suspicious, and would not come to the roll-call and I visited them on the stairs and corridors, or wherever they threw themselves down.
The doctor saw to it that my inspection was thorough. I was conducted to the padded-rooms, where maniacs laughed and shouted and sang and blasphemed, some of them throwing themselves frantically against the cushioned walls, others lying silently on the floor, plucking futilely at their sacking clothing. One poor woman lay in bed wasted to a shadow, her bones nearly sticking through her skin. "Pray for him," she cried; "oh, pray for him! His soul is burning in hell; night and day he cries to me for a drop of cold water, but I may not take it to him. Look at his poor throat where the rope cut; look at his poor starting eyes. Is there no mercy in heaven?"
"Poor woman!" said the doctor. "Her only son was hanged, and it has turned her brain. She is sinking fast. I don't think she can live the day out, and we shall all say 'Thank God!' It is a most pitiful case."
In the general ward I saw a magnificent growth of golden hair plaited round and round the head of a young girl who sat in a corner, her face buried in her hands. Beside her sat a visitor, pressing some hot-house grapes upon her. "Just try one, Mabel darling; don't you know me, dear?" The hands were not withdrawn, but as I passed with the doctor she suddenly sprang to her feet. "Has he come?" The doctor paused, and nodded cheerfully at the visitor. "Very good sign, Mrs. Foster; I will see you later about your daughter." At last it was over; my report-sheet was filled, and with great thankfulness I passed into the outer air. I gazed at the men and women outside with a sense of comradeship and security; whatever their private troubles, at least they were "uncertified," free men, not possessed of devils, grievously tormented. One gets used to everything; but that first visit to A—— Asylum stands out in letters of flame in my memory, and as I waited on the platform for my train, I shivered as if with ague and a sense of deadly nausea overpowered me.
I entered an empty compartment, but just as the train was starting the woman whom I had seen visiting at the asylum got in after me, and we were alone together. She glanced at me shyly several times, as if she wished to say something; and then, suddenly clutching my hand, she burst into tears: "Oh! I am so thankful—so thankful! Did you see my poor girl to-day? Yes, I know you did, for I saw you look at her beautiful golden hair—whenever I see the sun shining on cornfields I think of my Mabel's hair. Well, for nigh three years Mabel has sat in that awful place; she has never taken her hands away from her face, nor looked up, nor spoken a word, till this afternoon; and then, whether it was the doctor, or your blue cloak—but, as you saw, she stood up and spoke, and after that she ate some grapes, and knew me again, and grumbled at the way they had done her hair—the nurse says that is the best sign of all, and so does the doctor. Oh! thank God! thank God!" and the poor woman sobbed in choking spasms of joy.
I felt that I and my blue cloak were such unconscious agents in the restoration of reason that her gratitude was quite embarrassing.
"Yes, she has been in there just on three years; acute melancholia, they call it, brought on by nervous shock. Our doctor at home always gave me some hope, but not the people in there. I suppose they see such a lot of misery, they get into the habit of despair. Mabel is my only child; my husband died just after she was born, so you can guess what she has been to me. Fortunately, I understood the greengrocery business; so when I lost my husband I went on with the shop just the same, and was able to give her a good education. She took to her books wonderful, and got a scholarship on to the High School; she learnt French and German, and went on to Pitman's College for shorthand and typewriting; and at eighteen she got an engagement as typist and secretary to a City firm. She was a wonderful pretty girl, my Mabel; just like a lily, with her slight figure and golden head; and the men came about her like flies; but she would never go with any of them; she was such a one to come home and spend her evenings quietly with me, reading or sewing. Then suddenly I saw a change had come over my girl; one of the gentlemen in the office had been after her, and she had fallen in love with him, head over heels, as girls will. I wasn't glad; perhaps it was a mother's jealousy, perhaps it was second-sight a-warning of me; but I couldn't be pleased nohow. He came up to tea on Sunday afternoon, and I hated him at once; if ever liar and scoundrel was written on a man's face, it was there plain for all to read, except my poor child, and she was blind as folks in love always are. Then, though he wasn't a gentleman as I count gentlemen, he was above her in station, and I could see as he looked down on me and the shop; and, as I told my poor girl, them unequal marriages don't lead to no good. But there, I saw it was no use a-talking; we only fell out over the wretch—the only time she ever spoke nasty to me was over him—I saw she would only marry him on the sly if I said 'No'—we must let our children go to their doom when they are in love—and so I took my savings out of the bank and gave her a trousseau of the best; and all the time my heart was heavy as lead. Folks used to laugh at me and tell me I looked as if I were getting ready for a funeral instead of a wedding. There's many a true word spoken in jest; and that was how I felt all the time—a great, black cloud of horror over everything.
"You should have seen my Mabel on her wedding-day. She looked just beautiful in her plain white dress and long veil. The two bridesmaids wore white muslin, with blue sashes; and Mrs. Allen—my first-floor lodger—said as they might have been three angels of heaven. I drove in the cab to give my girl away. God only knows how I felt. Folks have told me since that I was white and rigid like a corpse, and that I sat in church with my hand held up before Mabel as if to ward off a blow. We sat, and waited, and waited, and waited. It was summer-time; and, being in the trade, I had not spared the flowers; and the church was heavy with the scent of roses and sweet-peas—I have sickened every summer since at the smell of them. The organist played all the wedding tunes through, and then began them over again—I have hated the sound of them ever since—and still we waited. The best man went out to telephone for the bridegroom; and my eldest nephew took a motor to drive round to fetch him. The clock struck three, and the vicar, looking very troubled for Mabel, came out in his surplice to say the ceremony could not take place that day; so we all drove home again. Mabel never spoke; but she sat up in her bedroom cold as a stone, with her face buried in her hands, just as you saw her this afternoon, leaning her arms on the little writing-table where she used to sit to do her lessons. She would not speak, nor eat, nor move; and by sheer force we tore off her wedding finery and got her into bed. The doctor came and said she was suffering from nervous shock, and if she could cry she might recover. We pitied her and called him, and the bridesmaids swelled up their eyes with crying, hoping to infect her; but not a tear could we get out of her; not even when my nephew came back with a note the scoundrel had left. He was a married man all the time; and the crime of bigamy was too much for him at the end. My sister and I sat up all night, but we could do nothing with her; and at the end of the week the doctor said she must be put away, as it was not safe for her to be at home. Ah, well! we live through terrible things; and when I left my pretty, clever girl at the lunatic asylum I did not think I could bear it; but I went on living. That is three years ago now and never once has Mabel looked up or spoken till to-day, I think it was your blue cloak; her going-away dress was just that colour, and it seemed to rouse her somehow."
The train drew up at the terminus, and she held out her hand in farewell. "Good-bye. Please think of my Mabel sometimes. I don't know what religion you are, but if you would sometimes say this prayer for her, perhaps God might hear." She held out a little bit of paper, soiled and smudged as if with many tears; and then the crowds surged between us, and we parted.