Among the unspeakable crimes which man, in the name of humanity, has
perpetrated against his fellow man, none has been more gruesome, more
merciless, more fiendishly cruel than the abuse of the private
sanitarium.
There is a hazy notion in the public mind that the private insane
asylum, the horrors of which were so vividly depicted by Charles Reade,
Edgar Allan Poe, and other writers, are things of the barbarous past,
and that in our own enlightened, humane, practical twentieth century,
when the liberty of the individual was never so jealously safe-guarded,
it would be impossible for any unscrupulous person, actuated by
interested motives of his own, to "railroad" a perfectly sane relative
to an institution, and retain him there indefinitely against his or her
will. The startling truth, however, is that, under our present lunacy
system, nothing is easier.
The infamous madhouses of half a century ago, with their secret
dungeons, their living skeletons rattling in chains, their brutal
keepers who tickled the soles of hapless inmates' feet to drive them
into hysterics in anticipation of the annual perfunctory visit of the
State examiners in lunacy, have, it is true been driven out of business;
the existing sanitariums are now more or less under rigid State control,
yet this official supervision is not always adequate protection against
misrepresentation and fraud. By the free expenditure of money and with
the cooeperation of unscrupulous physicians, foul wrongs are frequently
inflicted on the most innocent and unoffensive people. At the present
moment it is not only possible for scheming persons, interested in
getting a relative safely out of the way, to accomplish their sinister
purpose, but each year in the United States dozens of perfectly sane
persons are actually incarcerated in private asylums scattered over the
country.
The medical superintendent of a prominent State hospital, in a paper
read recently before the Bar Association practically admitted the truth
of this. At the same time, reviewing the laws bearing upon the
commitment and discharge of the criminally insane, he proposed certain
changes suggested by the actual operation of the present laws. He also
drew attention to a statement made by the _Medical Record_ to the effect
that, only a short time since, no fewer than fourteen persons were
committed to one small institution by juries in a single year and every
one of them was found later to be sane, and had to be discharged. The
superintendent very properly insisted that there should be some
modification of the present law whereby lunatics, accused of serious
crimes against the person and especially those committing murder, should
be dealt with by a tribunal having fixed, continuous responsibility, and
that a jury of laymen should not be allowed to decide regarding the
mental condition of any person with a view to his commitment to an
asylum for the insane or to his discharge therefrom.
The abuses possible under the present loose system are only too obvious,
the opportunity offered to fraud and crime only too apparent. Putting
troublesome relatives in lunatic asylums might be considered an easy way
of getting rid of them by those who are too tender-hearted or too
cowardly to murder them outright. It is scarcely more merciful.
Frequently the request for incarceration is not brought before a court
or jury at all. A commission of insanity experts is summoned by the
alleged lunatic's relatives, and if they are satisfied that the patient
is of unsound mind they sign a paper committing him or her to some
institution. Sometimes the signature of one physician only is
sufficient, and in fraudulent cases, where the persons calling in the
physicians are keenly interested in the result, everything is done to
make out a _bona-fide_ case, and prove the patient out of his or her
mind. Harried, nervous, fearful of everybody and everything, the
slightest lapse from control or commonplace speech is used for the
patient's undoing.
The mental anguish and actual suffering that a sane person must
necessarily undergo when suddenly deprived of his liberty and brutally
incarcerated in some lugubrious, lonely sanitarium can better be
imagined than described. To know that one is in perfect health and yet
compelled to associate with poor creatures whose minds are really
shattered, forced to listen to their senseless chatter all day and to
hear their blood-curdling screams all night, to be under constant
surveillance, an object of distrust and pity, subject to a severe and
humiliating discipline, punished by the dreaded cold-water douche when
refractory--all this is enough to make a madman of the sanest person.
And when, added to these horrors, the unfortunate victim sees himself
deserted by all, deprived of means to employ a lawyer, knowing that the
enemies responsible for his misfortune are squandering his money and
profiting by his misery, is it a wonder that in a moment of
discouragement and desperation he abandons hope and does away with
himself? Then the indifferent world sagely wags its head and accepts
without questioning the coroner's verdict: "Killed by his own hand in a
fit of suicidal mania."
Among the larger private insane asylums in New York State, the
institution "Sea Rest" at Tocquencke, bore a fairly good reputation.
That is to say, the skirts of the management had been kept relatively
free from scandal, and suicides were of comparatively rare occurrence.
The institution, under the direction of Superintendent Spencer, was
pleasantly situated on Long Island, overlooking the Sound, and catered
almost exclusively to a wealthy class of patients who, for one reason or
another, found themselves compelled to take the "rest cure."
One morning, about three weeks after Mr. Cooley's spectacular arrest of
the runaways at the Jersey ferry, Superintendent Spencer was seated at
his desk in the general reception room at "Sea Rest," dictating reports
to a young woman stenographer. There was little about the surroundings
to suggest the sinister character of the place. Only the heavily barred
windows, overlooking the grounds enclosed by high walls, and the massive
doors fitted with ponderous bolts and locks suggested that padded cells
with wild-eyed inmates might be found in some other part of the
establishment. Otherwise it was an ordinary, everyday business office.
The large desk near the window was covered with ledgers and papers,
while close at hand was a telephone and clicking typewriter. To the left
of the desk a small, narrow door led to the wards. On the right a heavy
door opened on the vestibule and grounds.
The superintendent himself was a clean-shaven man of about thirty-five.
Alert-looking and well groomed, he had the energetic manner of the
successful business man. Mechanically, as if it were a matter of
tiresome routine, to be hurried through as speedily as possible, he went
on dictating in a monotonous tone:
"Report on Miss Manderson's case. Attendant, Miss Hadley; physician, Dr.
Bently. Patient's demand for stimulants decreasing, but she calls
constantly for bridge-playing companions. Patient generally
cheerful--will not retire till 3 A. M. Six packages of cigarettes in her
room----"
Buzz! buzz! A disc fell down on the indicator on the wall, disclosing a
number.
The superintendent turned quickly and, glancing at the indicator,
pressed a button in his desk. This released a bolt in the door leading
to the outer hall, a safeguard necessary to prevent reckless patients
from wandering outside to help themselves without permission to the
fresh air. The big door swung open and an old man, bent with age,
entered.
"Ah, Collins--I wanted to see you!" said the superintendent sharply.
Seized with an attack of coughing, the old man could not reply at once.
For thirty years he had been an inmate. When a man is going on eighty,
he is not as vigorous as he once was. Formerly a waiter at Delmonico's,
he found the pace too swift. His mind gave way, and a rich patron,
pitying his condition, sent him to "Sea Rest." For a long time now he
had been cured, but, broken in spirit, he found he could not return to
the old life, so he had remained at the asylum in the capacity of
attendant.
"Yes--sir," he gasped, between spasms of coughing.
The superintendent looked at him severely:
"Collins, did you buy six packets of cigarettes for Miss Manderson?"
The old man cowered. He was afraid of the superintendent. He had reason
to dread those cold douches.
"No, sir," he replied, trembling.
"Are you sure?" demanded the superintendent.
"Yes, sir," answered the old man hesitatingly, his eyes on the floor.
"Look at me," thundered the superintendent.
"Yes, sir."
He looked up timidly and shook his head.
"Don't you know," almost shouted the superintendent, "that she has come
to 'Sea Rest' to recuperate from an overdose of social life, and that
she must not smoke?"
"Yes, sir."
"You've been a waiter all your life, Collins--and I'm afraid that the
old instinct to take tips is too strong."
"It's hard to refuse sometimes, sir," replied the old man, his knees
shaking, "but I manage to overcome my feelings--occasionally."
The indicator again rang. The superintendent turned.
"It's the front door," he said, with a gesture to go and answer the
bell.
"It's Dr. Bently, sir," rejoined the old man.
As Collins went to open the outside door, the superintendent turned to
the stenographer.
"Make a note in your report suggesting that Miss Manderson's money be
taken from her while she is an inmate of the sanitarium."
"Yes, sir."
The superintendent took up another paper.
"Report on Mr. Jeliffe's case. Attendant, James Hurst; physician, Dr.
Macdonald. Same as previous report."
Suddenly the small, narrow door on the left opened and the head female
attendant, dressed in a gray uniform with white cap and apron, entered.
She was a big, muscular-looking woman, the kind of person one might
expect to find in her particular business, a woman who looked capable of
meeting, single-handed, any emergency that might arise. Her face was
hard and unsympathetic, yet it belied her real character, for, as asylum
nurses go, she was kind to the patients under her care.
"Well, Mrs. Johnson, what is it?" exclaimed the superintendent testily,
annoyed at the many interruptions.
"Miss Marsh wants to see you, sir."
"Not to-day, Mrs. Johnson. I have seventy reports to make out, and I'm
only half through. What does she want to see me about? Same thing, I
suppose."
"She insists that she is being unlawfully detained here, and she wants
to go."
"Of course--of course," exclaimed the superintendent impatiently. "In
the short time that she's been here her case has received more attention
than any in my experience. What with doctors, and lawyers, and newspaper
men, I'm hounded to death about her. Tell her that she can't be
permitted to go without an order of release from a physician. The State
demands that. You know it as well as I do and yet you waste my time
every few hours. Tell her that her _habeas corpus_ case comes up next
Friday."
He returned to his papers with an impatient gesture, as if he dismissed
the matter from his mind, but the attendant still remained. Hesitatingly
she said:
"She's so unhappy! She cries so constantly that I--I wish you'd see her,
Mr. Spencer--if only to satisfy her. What can I do?"
The superintendent looked up from his work and glared at his head nurse,
as if amazed at her obstinacy. Coldly, deliberately, he said:
"Mrs. Johnson, I'm afraid you are wasting a lot of sympathy on this
case. This patient was caught by her guardian at the Jersey City ferry,
in the act of eloping. She's mad as a March hare. Her certificate is
signed by three of the most eminent physicians in the country, and her
application for release is opposed by the biggest lawyer in New
York--Bascom Cooley. There is no question about her mental condition."
Turning once more to his desk, he resumed dictating:
"Report on Mr. Jeliffe's case----"
The attendant still lingered.
"Well, sir," she said hesitatingly, "will you send a telegram to Mr.
Ricaby, her lawyer, asking him to come up."
"He was here yesterday, wasn't he?" snapped the superintendent.
"She is most anxious to see him," persisted the nurse.
The superintendent frowned. This obstinacy was very annoying. Still, he
dare not refuse such a simple request.
"I'll see what Dr. Zacharie says," he said curtly. "His instructions
were that she must not be excited or annoyed by visitors."
"Very well, sir," said the nurse respectfully, as she went out again
through the little door.
The superintendent resumed his work.
"Have you made out the report on Miss Marsh's case?"
"Yes, sir."
The stenographer was busy searching through a mass of papers when
Collins reappeared.
"Will you see Dr. Zacharie, sir?" inquired the old man.
"Yes--show him in," replied the superintendent.
Collins half opened the door and Dr. Zacharie entered, full of
authority. Like most charlatans who find it necessary to deceive the
world, the physician tried to cover up his shortcomings by noisy
bluster. Advancing to the desk, his chest inflated with self-importance,
he greeted Mr. Spencer in a patronizing tone:
"Good morning, Mr. Spencer. Well, how is she to-day?"
The superintendent shook his head, as if much discouraged.
"Rather restless, I should say." Handing a paper to the physician, he
added: "Here's the report."
Dr. Zacharie took the report and hastily scanned it.
"Ah, well!" he muttered, "it is to be expected."
"Will you see her?" inquired the superintendent.
"No; it--it is not necessary just yet. There is to be a consultation
to-day. Dr. McMutrie and Professor Bodley will be here presently--also
Mr. Cooley."
"Her _habeas corpus_ comes up on Friday, I believe," said the
superintendent politely. Mr. Spencer always made it a rule to stand in
well with the visiting physicians.
Dr. Zacharie frowned.
"Yes, a jury of illiterate ignoramuses to decide a scientific question!
Ah, such laws in this country!" He stopped and read aloud from the
report: "Cries constantly--sits silent and moody for hours." Looking up,
he said: "Poor girl, she--she seems to be conscious of her position at
times--she talks much, eh?"
At that moment old Collins reappeared.
"Mr. Ricaby wishes to see Miss Marsh," he said.
The superintendent made a gesture in the direction of the wards.
"Tell Mrs. Johnson to bring her here." As the old attendant went to obey
the order, the superintendent turned to Dr. Zacharie: "Will you wait,
doctor?" he asked.
The other quickly shook his head.
"No," he said. "I don't like that fellow Ricaby. He has a stupid idea
that we are opposed to him. May I take this report? I would like to show
it to my colleagues when they come."
"Certainly, certainly," replied the other.
He rose from his desk, indicating by a nod to his stenographer that
there would be no further dictation. As the secretary gathered her
papers the bell rang.
"There's the luncheon bell," said the superintendent. Addressing Dr.
Zacharie: "Won't you join us?"
"No, thanks," replied the physician. "Send us a copy of the other
reports, will you? We shall need them on Friday."
Buzz! buzz!
Mr. Spencer touched a button and the big doors swung wide open, giving
admittance to Mr. Ricaby, who, pale and anxious-looking, advanced
quickly into the office. As he came in Dr. Zacharie, a sneer on his
lips, made a formal salutation, but it was not returned. Ignoring the
physician's presence entirely, the lawyer made his way straight to the
superintendent's desk:
"I wish to see my client, Miss Marsh," he said, in a firm voice that
would brook no refusal.
Dr. Zacharie gave a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders and, with a
significant smile at the superintendent, went away.
"I have sent for Miss Marsh," said the superintendent coldly.
"Thank you," replied the lawyer curtly.
The air was full of hostility. The superintendent stood in silence at
his desk putting away his papers. Mr. Ricaby, taking a seat uninvited,
looked around him and shuddered as he thought of the poor girl whose
rescue from this dreadful place he was moving heaven and earth to
effect. After a few minutes' wait Collins reappeared. Addressing the
superintendent, he said:
"Miss Marsh will be here directly, sir."
"Very well," growled the other. "They can have this room."
"Yes, sir."
"Who is on watch duty to-day?" demanded the superintendent.
"Lockwood at the front gates, sir, and Medwinter patrolling."
"Very well," said the superintendent airily. "If you want me I'm at
lunch."
Then, without so much as a glance at the lawyer, he closed his desk lid
with a bang and left the office.
Mr. Ricaby waited anxiously for the coming of his client. All voices and
sounds had died away, and a heavy, sinister silence fell upon the entire
building. There was something unnatural about the dead calm. Suddenly
there was a scream of terror, followed by peals of hysterical laughter.
Then all was silence again. In spite of himself the lawyer felt
uncomfortable. He shuddered as he realized what Paula had suffered in
such a place. The quiet now was uncanny and oppressive. All one heard
was the loud ticking of the office clock and the stealthy walk of old
Collins, who, gliding about the room in his noiseless felt slippers,
halted every now and then to glance in the direction of the visitor.
Like most persons of weak mind, he was easily excited by the appearance
of a new face. Indeed, strangers at "Sea Rest" were enough of a novelty
to excite interest. With the physicians and regular callers the inmates
were familiar enough, but the sight of a stranger revived in their
debilitated minds old recollections, thoughts of the outer world, a
world of sunshine, joy, and liberty of which they themselves had once
been a part and which they had abandoned all hope of ever seeing again.
At last, unable to control his curiosity any longer, the old man stopped
in front of the lawyer and inquired respectfully:
"Can I get you anything, sir?"
"No, thanks," replied Mr. Ricaby. There was something in the appearance
of the old man that interested him, and kindly he asked: "How long have
you been here?"
"Nearly ten years, sir--on and off. I was an inmate here, sir, when Dr.
Spencer--Mr. Spencer's father--was the proprietor."
"Are you still a--a--an inmate?"
"No, sir--not so to speak. I'm a waiter, sir--my old profession. After I
got better I went back to my old position at Delmonico's, but I couldn't
stand the excitement. You wouldn't believe it, sir, but waiters are
frightfully tried. We've got to know just what people want, who don't
know what they want themselves, and who complain if we make the
slightest mistake. Don't they make mistakes, too? Don't they point with
their knives and forks while they talk in a vulgar, loud voice with
their mouths full of food? Don't they put vinegar on their oysters and
ice in their claret? Don't they drink champagne with fish? Don't they
expect a half portion to be enough for two? And, cruellest act of all,
they talk to us in a language they call French. They blame us when the
cashier makes mistakes. They blame us when the cook makes mistakes. They
blame us when their own digestions make mistakes. They forget that we're
human. And, I tell you, sir, it gets on our nerves at last. It's bound
to." Suddenly the electric indicator buzzed loudly. The old man started
nervously and glanced up.
"It's the dining room, sir. Excuse me, sir."
Before he could obey the summons a bell sounded violently from the same
direction.
"All right--all right," he cried. "I heard it the first time."
He toddled off, grumbling. A moment later the small, narrow door opened
and Mrs. Johnson, the head attendant, entered, followed by Paula.