"Is he sane, as regards the present—of passing events?" asked the general practitioner.
"Sane as you or I, except in the relapses. He has illusions and hallucinations, but recovers himself without treatment other than seclusion. It is a case of second personality, no doubt; but there is no prognosis."
"And you cannot classify it?"
"No, except as double personality. He cannot remember his name before the time the police brought him to us. He began all over again, and is now an intelligent man, who reads the papers, and talks sanely."
"Keep up that hypnotic treatment."
"What's the use? We are busy over more modern and vital cases. He is merely a medical and physical curiosity."
"Keep it up. By hypnotic treatment you can obtain his past and restore his memory. You know that. Isn't it worth while—to restore a man's soul to him?"
"Well, perhaps I will; but I am very busy, and he is a hard subject to hypnotize."
The car was approaching my corner. With my mind in a whirl that I could not understand, I arose, and, facing the two doctors, I asked them where this man was confined. "Bellevue," answered the narrator of the story.
I thanked him, and went out, standing for a while on the corner, breathing deeply of the fresh air, and trying to analyze my state of mind. Something within me was beating against my poor, tired brain—something that would not take form and expression; something of truth and fact and experience of my own that I could not remember—something pertaining to my life at sea.