downstairs. I never drink wine, so that what happened was eminently
normal. It was in the summer twilight that I returned to the study. I
glanced at the desk. There he was, sitting. So natural was it, that
before I knew I cried out "Jim!" Then I remembered all that had
happened. Of course it was an hallucination. I knew that. I took the
poker and went over to it. He did not move nor vanish. The poker cleaved
through the non-existent substance of the thing and struck the back of
the chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it was. The mark is there on the
chair now where the poker struck. I pause from my writing and turn and
look at it--press the tips of my fingers into the indentation.
* * * * *
He _did_ continue the argument. I stole up to-day and looked over his
shoulder. He was writing the history of our discussion. It was the same
old nonsense about the eternity of forms. But as I continued to read, he
wrote down the practical test I had made with the poker. Now this is
unfair and untrue. I made no test. In falling he struck his head on the
poker.
* * * * *
Some day, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will be
terrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping and
peering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servant
I have had is curious about what I write.
* * * * *
Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in the
chair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went down
into the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. It
was untampered with. The dead do not rise up.
* * * * *
Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair.
When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had my
meals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours,
for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, until
eleven o'clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, and
there he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being only
fabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it was
unoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boasted
higher planes of existence--his brother's brain and a chair? After all,
was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be an
hallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is food
for thought here. Some day I shall come to a conclusion upon it.
* * * * *
He was very much disturbed to-day. He could not write, for I had made
the servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neither
could I write.
* * * * *
The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keener
sight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be what
it is--a product of my own morbid consciousness?
* * * * *
He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This is
unanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. I
want to write myself.
* * * * *
I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, and
not one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is that
of mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my pen
more often than is necessary. And furthermore, only to-day I found my
pen out of order. I did not break it.
* * * * *
I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watched
him all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that he
knew me.
* * * * *
By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, I
can shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into the
chair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order to
accomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sit
down.
* * * * *
It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops into
the chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only way
to describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way lies
madness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what I
know is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop.
* * * * *
Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupy
the chair I am quit of him.
* * * * *
My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, is
failing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhaps
more than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have so
repeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand.
* * * * *
My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am I
not cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, an
idea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughts
are entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created this
phantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have created
him is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is an
entity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality.
* * * * *
Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, can
create an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creator
made substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair to
assume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It is
merely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor a
solar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. This
being so, may I not some day be able to make a mountain or a solar
system?
* * * * *
All his days, down to to-day, man has lived in a maze. He has never seen
the light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light--not as
my brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberately
and rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubt
about it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see.
The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw what
made me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This is
not my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as I
could fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created.
* * * * *
Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is my
brother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because of
thinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in the
morning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has sat
there the night long.
* * * * *
I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in a
physician.
* * * * *
Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night I
was so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for the
servant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was he
banished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shall
remain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief.
* * * * *
It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable to
lie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he is
sitting there in the cold darkness.
* * * * *
It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I have
tried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If I
could but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, and
sits there--I know he does--while I stare and stare up into the
blackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there.
I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms.
* * * * *
The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is why
I have never called in a physician.
* * * * *
I am resolved. Henceforth this hallucination ceases. From now on I shall
remain in the chair. I shall never leave it. I shall remain in it night
and day and always.
* * * * *
I have succeeded. For two weeks I have not seen him. Nor shall I ever
see him again. I have at last attained the equanimity of mind necessary
for philosophic thought. I wrote a complete chapter to-day.
* * * * *
It is very wearisome, sitting in a chair. The weeks pass, the months
come and go, the seasons change, the servants replace each other, while
I remain. I only remain. It is a strange life I lead, but at least I am
at peace.
* * * * *
He comes no more. There is no eternity of forms. I have proved it. For
nearly two years now, I have remained in this chair, and I have not seen
him once. True, I was severely tried for a time. But it is clear that
what I thought I saw was merely hallucination. He never was. Yet I do
not leave the chair. I am afraid to leave the chair.
TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD
Me? I'm not a drooler. I'm the assistant, I don't know what Miss Jones
or Miss Kelsey could do without me. There are fifty-five low-grade
droolers in this ward, and how could they ever all be fed if I wasn't
around? I like to feed droolers. They don't make trouble. They can't.
Something's wrong with most of their legs and arms, and they can't talk.
They're very low-grade. I can walk, and talk, and do things. You must be
careful with the droolers and not feed them too fast. Then they choke.
Miss Jones says I'm an expert. When a new nurse comes I show her how to
do it. It's funny watching a new nurse try to feed them. She goes at it
so slow and careful that supper time would be around before she finished
shoving down their breakfast. Then I show her, because I'm an expert.
Dr. Dalrymple says I am, and he ought to know. A drooler can eat twice
as fast if you know how to make him.
My name's Tom. I'm twenty-eight years old. Everybody knows me in the
institution. This is an institution, you know. It belongs to the State
of California and is run by politics. I know. I've been here a long
time. Everybody trusts me. I run errands all over the place, when I'm
not busy with the droolers. I like droolers. It makes me think how lucky
I am that I ain't a drooler.
I like it here in the Home. I don't like the outside. I know. I've been
around a bit, and run away, and adopted. Me for the Home, and for the
drooling ward best of all. I don't look like a drooler, do I? You can
tell the difference soon as you look at me. I'm an assistant, expert
assistant. That's going some for a feeb. Feeb? Oh, that's feeble-minded.
I thought you knew. We're all feebs in here.
But I'm a high-grade feeb. Dr. Dalrymple says I'm too smart to be in the
Home, but I never let on. It's a pretty good place. And I don't throw
fits like lots of the feebs. You see that house up there through the
trees. The high-grade epilecs all live in it by themselves. They're
stuck up because they ain't just ordinary feebs. They call it the club
house, and they say they're just as good as anybody outside, only
they're sick. I don't like them much. They laugh at me, when they ain't
busy throwing fits. But I don't care. I never have to be scared about
falling down and busting my head. Sometimes they run around in circles
trying to find a place to sit down quick, only they don't. Low-grade
epilecs are disgusting, and high-grade epilecs put on airs. I'm glad I
ain't an epilec. There ain't anything to them. They just talk big,
that's all.
Miss Kelsey says I talk too much. But I talk sense, and that's more than
the other feebs do. Dr. Dalrymple says I have the gift of language. I
know it. You ought to hear me talk when I'm by myself, or when I've got
a drooler to listen. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a politician, only
it's too much trouble. They're all great talkers; that's how they hold
their jobs.
Nobody's crazy in this institution. They're just feeble in their minds.
Let me tell you something funny. There's about a dozen high-grade girls
that set the tables in the big dining room. Sometimes when they're done
ahead of time, they all sit down in chairs in a circle and talk. I sneak
up to the door and listen, and I nearly die to keep from laughing. Do
you want to know what they talk? It's like this. They don't say a word
for a long time. And then one says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded."
And all the rest nod their heads and look pleased. And then nobody says
anything for a time. After which the next girl in the circle says,
"Thank God I'm not feeble-minded," and they nod their heads all over
again. And it goes on around the circle, and they never say anything
else. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm not
that kind of a feeb, thank God.
Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and read
music. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader.
He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongst
ourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. I
play the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. I
was sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't break
down while I was in hospital.
I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some might
think. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everything
would run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'm
not a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I know
the world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me.
You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on a
lot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth is
funny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tell
a feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn't
prove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one.
I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when I
don't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't want
to do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. I
watch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody.
And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool the
other day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her.
Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I was
telling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, you
know, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's the
matter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because she
didn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book.
Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk.
Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads no
bigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a long
time. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they're
smarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at one
without thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy, or
the nurse is mad at me, I wish I was a drooler with nothing to do and
somebody to feed me. But I guess I'd sooner talk and be what I am.
Only yesterday Doctor Dalrymple said to me, "Tom," he said, "I just
don't know what I'd do without you." And he ought to know, seeing as
he's had the bossing of a thousand feebs for going on two years. Dr.
Whatcomb was before him. They get appointed, you know. It's politics.
I've seen a whole lot of doctors here in my time. I was here before any
of them. I've been in this institution twenty-five years. No, I've got
no complaints. The institution couldn't be run better.
It's a snap to be a high-grade feeb. Just look at Doctor Dalrymple. He
has troubles. He holds his job by politics. You bet we high-graders talk
politics. We know all about it, and it's bad. An institution like this
oughtn't to be run on politics. Look at Doctor Dalrymple. He's been here
two years and learned a lot. Then politics will come along and throw
him out and send a new doctor who don't know anything about feebs.
I've been acquainted with just thousands of nurses in my time. Some of
them are nice. But they come and go. Most of the women get married.
Sometimes I think I'd like to get married. I spoke to Dr. Whatcomb about
it once, but he told me he was very sorry, because feebs ain't allowed
to get married. I've been in love. She was a nurse. I won't tell you her
name. She had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and a kind voice, and she
liked me. She told me so. And she always told me to be a good boy. And I
was, too, until afterward, and then I ran away. You see, she went off
and got married, and she didn't tell me about it.
I guess being married ain't what it's cracked up to be. Dr. Anglin and
his wife used to fight. I've seen them. And once I heard her call him a
feeb. Now nobody has a right to call anybody a feeb that ain't. Dr.
Anglin got awful mad when she called him that. But he didn't last long.
Politics drove him out, and Doctor Mandeville came. He didn't have a
wife. I heard him talking one time with the engineer. The engineer and
his wife fought like cats and dogs, and that day Doctor Mandeville told
him he was damn glad he wasn't tied to no petticoats. A petticoat is a
skirt. I knew what he meant, if I was a feeb. But I never let on. You
hear lots when you don't let on.
I've seen a lot in my time. Once I was adopted, and went away on the
railroad over forty miles to live with a man named Peter Bopp and his
wife. They had a ranch. Doctor Anglin said I was strong and bright, and
I said I was, too. That was because I wanted to be adopted. And Peter
Bopp said he'd give me a good home, and the lawyers fixed up the papers.
But I soon made up my mind that a ranch was no place for me. Mrs. Bopp
was scared to death of me and wouldn't let me sleep in the house. They
fixed up the woodshed and made me sleep there. I had to get up at four
o'clock and feed the horses, and milk cows, and carry the milk to the
neighbours. They called it chores, but it kept me going all day. I
chopped wood, and cleaned chicken houses, and weeded vegetables, and
did most everything on the place. I never had any fun. I hadn't no time.
Let me tell you one thing. I'd sooner feed mush and milk to feebs than
milk cows with the frost on the ground. Mrs. Bopp was scared to let me
play with her children. And I was scared, too. They used to make faces
at me when nobody was looking, and call me "Looney." Everybody called me
Looney Tom. And the other boys in the neighbourhood threw rocks at me.
You never see anything like that in the Home here. The feebs are better
behaved.
Mrs. Bopp used to pinch me and pull my hair when she thought I was too
slow, and I only made foolish noises and went slower. She said I'd be
the death of her some day. I left the boards off the old well in the
pasture, and the pretty new calf fell in and got drowned. Then Peter
Bopp said he was going to give me a licking. He did, too. He took a
strap halter and went at me. It was awful. I'd never had a licking in my
life. They don't do such things in the Home, which is why I say the
Home is the place for me.
I know the law, and I knew he had no right to lick me with a strap
halter. That was being cruel, and the guardianship papers said he
mustn't be cruel. I didn't say anything. I just waited, which shows you
what kind of a feeb I am. I waited a long time, and got slower, and made
more foolish noises; but he wouldn't, send me back to the Home, which
was what I wanted. But one day, it was the first of the month, Mrs.
Brown gave me three dollars, which was for her milk bill with Peter
Bopp. That was in the morning. When I brought the milk in the evening I
was to bring back the receipt. But I didn't. I just walked down to the
station, bought a ticket like any one, and rode on the train back to the
Home. That's the kind of a feeb I am.
Doctor Anglin was gone then, and Doctor Mandeville had his place. I
walked right into his office. He didn't know me. "Hello," he said, "this
ain't visiting day." "I ain't a visitor," I said. "I'm Tom. I belong
here." Then he whistled and showed he was surprised. I told him all
about it, and showed him the marks of the strap halter, and he got
madder and madder all the time and said he'd attend to Mr. Peter Bopp's
case.
And mebbe you think some of them little droolers weren't glad to see me.
I walked right into the ward. There was a new nurse feeding little
Albert. "Hold on," I said. "That ain't the way. Don't you see how he's
twisting that left eye? Let me show you." Mebbe she thought I was a new
doctor, for she just gave me the spoon, and I guess I filled little
Albert up with the most comfortable meal he'd had since I went away.
Droolers ain't bad when you understand them. I heard Miss Jones tell
Miss Kelsey once that I had an amazing gift in handling droolers.
Some day, mebbe, I'm going to talk with Doctor Dalrymple and get him to
give me a declaration that I ain't a feeb. Then I'll get him to make me
a real assistant in the drooling ward, with forty dollars a month and my
board. And then I'll marry Miss Jones and live right on here. And if
she won't have me, I'll marry Miss Kelsey or some other nurse. There's
lots of them that want to get married. And I won't care if my wife gets
mad and calls me a feeb. What's the good? And I guess when one's learned
to put up with droolers a wife won't be much worse.
I didn't tell you about when I ran away. I hadn't no idea of such a
thing, and it was Charley and Joe who put me up to it. They're
high-grade epilecs, you know. I'd been up to Doctor Wilson's office with
a message, and was going back to the drooling ward, when I saw Charley
and Joe hiding around the corner of the gymnasium and making motions to
me. I went over to them.
"Hello," Joe said. "How's droolers?"
"Fine," I said. "Had any fits lately?"
That made them mad, and I was going on, when Joe said, "We're running
away. Come on."
"What for?" I said.
"We're going up over the top of the mountain," Joe said.
"And find a gold mine," said Charley. "We don't have fits any more.
We're cured."
"All right," I said. And we sneaked around back of the gymnasium and in
among the trees. Mebbe we walked along about ten minutes, when I
stopped.
"What's the matter?" said Joe.
"Wait," I said. "I got to go back."
"What for?" said Joe.
And I said, "To get little Albert."
And they said I couldn't, and got mad. But I didn't care. I knew they'd
wait. You see, I've been here twenty-five years, and I know the back
trails that lead up the mountain, and Charley and Joe didn't know those
trails. That's why they wanted me to come.
So I went back and got little Albert. He can't walk, or talk, or do
anything except drool, and I had to carry him in my arms. We went on
past the last hayfield, which was as far as I'd ever gone. Then the
woods and brush got so thick, and me not finding any more trail, we
followed the cow-path down to a big creek and crawled through the fence
which showed where the Home land stopped.
We climbed up the big hill on the other side of the creek. It was all
big trees, and no brush, but it was so steep and slippery with dead
leaves we could hardly walk. By and by we came to a real bad place. It
was forty feet across, and if you slipped you'd fall a thousand feet, or
mebbe a hundred. Anyway, you wouldn't fall--just slide. I went across
first, carrying little Albert. Joe came next. But Charley got scared
right in the middle and sat down.
"I'm going to have a fit," he said.
"No, you're not," said Joe. "Because if you was you wouldn't 'a' sat
down. You take all your fits standing."
"This is a different kind of a fit," said Charley, beginning to cry.
He shook and shook, but just because he wanted to he couldn't scare up
the least kind of a fit.
Joe got mad and used awful language. But that didn't help none. So I
talked soft and kind to Charley. That's the way to handle feebs. If you
get mad, they get worse. I know. I'm that way myself. That's why I was
almost the death of Mrs. Bopp. She got mad.
It was getting along in the afternoon, and I knew we had to be on our
way, so I said to Joe:
"Here, stop your cussing and hold Albert. I'll go back and get him."
And I did, too; but he was so scared and dizzy he crawled along on hands
and knees while I helped him. When I got him across and took Albert back
in my arms, I heard somebody laugh and looked down. And there was a man
and woman on horseback looking up at us. He had a gun on his saddle, and
it was her who was laughing.
"Who in hell's that?" said Joe, getting scared. "Somebody to catch us?"
"Shut up your cussing," I said to him. "That is the man who owns this
ranch and writes books."
"How do you do, Mr. Endicott," I said down to him.
"Hello," he said. "What are you doing here?"
"We're running away," I said.
And he said, "Good luck. But be sure and get back before dark."
"But this is a real running away," I said.
And then both he and his wife laughed.
"All right," he said. "Good luck just the same. But watch out the bears
and mountain lions don't get you when it gets dark."
Then they rode away laughing, pleasant like; but I wished he hadn't said
that about the bears and mountain lions.