IN THE TEMPORARY HOME.
I was left to begin my career as Nellie Brown, the insane girl. As I
walked down the avenue I tried to assume the look which maidens wear in
pictures entitled “Dreaming.” “Far-away” expressions have a crazy air. I
passed through the little paved yard to the entrance of the Home. I
pulled the bell, which sounded loud enough for a church chime, and
nervously awaited the opening of the door to the Home, which I intended
should ere long cast me forth and out upon the charity of the police.
The door was thrown back with a vengeance, and a short, yellow-haired
girl of some thirteen summers stood before me.
“Is the matron in?” I asked, faintly.
“Yes, she’s in; she’s busy. Go to the back parlor,” answered the girl,
in a loud voice, without one change in her peculiarly matured face.
[Illustration: AT THE TEMPORARY HOME FOR WOMEN.]
I followed these not overkind or polite instructions and found myself in
a dark, uncomfortable back-parlor. There I awaited the arrival of my
hostess. I had been seated some twenty minutes at the least, when a
slender woman, clad in a plain, dark dress entered and, stopping before
me, ejaculated inquiringly, “Well?”
“Are you the matron?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, “the matron is sick; I am her assistant. What do you
want?”
“I want to stay here for a few days, if you can accommodate me.”
“Well, I have no single rooms, we are so crowded; but if you will occupy
a room with another girl, I shall do that much for you.”
“I shall be glad of that,” I answered. “How much do you charge?” I had
brought only about seventy cents along with me, knowing full well that
the sooner my funds were exhausted the sooner I should be put out, and
to be put out was what I was working for.
“We charge thirty cents a night,” was her reply to my question, and with
that I paid her for one night’s lodging, and she left me on the plea of
having something else to look after. Left to amuse myself as best I
could, I took a survey of my surroundings.
They were not cheerful, to say the least. A wardrobe, desk, book-case,
organ, and several chairs completed the furnishment of the room, into
which the daylight barely came.
By the time I had become familiar with my quarters a bell, which rivaled
the door-bell in its loudness, began clanging in the basement, and
simultaneously women went trooping down-stairs from all parts of the
house. I imagined, from the obvious signs, that dinner was served, but
as no one had said anything to me I made no effort to follow in the
hungry train. Yet I did wish that some one would invite me down. It
always produces such a lonely, homesick feeling to know others are
eating, and we haven’t a chance, even if we are not hungry. I was glad
when the assistant matron came up and asked me if I did not want
something to eat. I replied that I did, and then I asked her what her
name was. Mrs. Stanard, she said, and I immediately wrote it down in a
notebook I had taken with me for the purpose of making memoranda, and in
which I had written several pages of utter nonsense for inquisitive
scientists.
Thus equipped I awaited developments. But my dinner—well, I followed
Mrs. Stanard down the uncarpeted stairs into the basement, where a large
number of women were eating. She found room for me at a table with three
other women. The short-haired slavey who had opened the door now put in
an appearance as waiter. Placing her arms akimbo and staring me out of
countenance, she said:
“Boiled mutton, boiled beef, beans, potatoes, coffee or tea?”
“Beef, potatoes, coffee and bread,” I responded.
“Bread goes in,” she explained, as she made her way to the kitchen,
which was in the rear. It was not very long before she returned with
what I had ordered on a large, badly battered tray, which she banged
down before me. I began my simple meal. It was not very enticing, so
while making a feint of eating I watched the others.
I have often moralized on the repulsive form charity always assumes!
Here was a home for deserving women and yet what a mockery the name was.
The floor was bare, and the little wooden tables were sublimely ignorant
of such modern beautifiers as varnish, polish and table-covers. It is
useless to talk about the cheapness of linen and its effect on
civilization. Yet these honest workers, the most deserving of women, are
asked to call this spot of bareness—home.
When the meal was finished each woman went to the desk in the corner,
where Mrs. Stanard sat, and paid her bill. I was given a much-used, and
abused, red check, by the original piece of humanity in shape of my
waitress. My bill was about thirty cents.
After dinner I went up-stairs and resumed my former place in the back
parlor. I was quite cold and uncomfortable, and had fully made up my
mind that I could not endure that sort of business long, so the sooner I
assumed my insane points the sooner I would be released from enforced
idleness. Ah! that was indeed the longest day I had ever lived. I
listlessly watched the women in the front parlor, where all sat except
myself.
One did nothing but read and scratch her head and occasionally call out
mildly, “Georgie,” without lifting her eyes from her book. “Georgie” was
her over-frisky boy, who had more noise in him than any child I ever saw
before. He did everything that was rude and unmannerly, I thought, and
the mother never said a word unless she heard some one else yell at him.
Another woman always kept going to sleep and waking herself up with her
own snoring. I really felt wickedly thankful it was only herself she
awakened. The majority of the women sat there doing nothing, but there
were a few who made lace and knitted unceasingly. The enormous door-bell
seemed to be going all the time, and so did the short-haired girl. The
latter was, besides, one of those girls who sing all the time snatches
of all the songs and hymns that have been composed for the last fifty
years. There is such a thing as martyrdom in these days. The ringing of
the bell brought more people who wanted shelter for the night. Excepting
one woman, who was from the country on a day’s shopping expedition, they
were working women, some of them with children.
As it drew toward evening Mrs. Stanard came to me and said:
“What is wrong with you? Have you some sorrow or trouble?”
“No,” I said, almost stunned at the suggestion. “Why?”
“Oh, because,” she said, womanlike, “I can see it in your face. It tells
the story of a great trouble.”
“Yes, everything is so sad,” I said, in a haphazard way, which I had
intended to reflect my craziness.
“But you must not allow that to worry you. We all have our troubles, but
we get over them in good time. What kind of work are you trying to get?”
“I do not know; it’s all so sad,” I replied.
“Would you like to be a nurse for children and wear a nice white cap and
apron?” she asked.
I put my handkerchief up to my face to hide a smile, and replied, in a
muffled tone, “I never worked; I don’t know how.”
“But you must learn,” she urged; “all these women here work.”
“Do they?” I said, in a low, thrilling whisper. “Why, they look horrible
to me; just like crazy women. I am so afraid of them.”
“They don’t look very nice,” she answered, assentingly, “but they are
good, honest working women. We do not keep crazy people here.”
I again used my handkerchief to hide a smile, as I thought that before
morning she would at least think she had one crazy person among her
flock.
“They all look crazy,” I asserted again, “and I am afraid of them. There
are so many crazy people about, and one can never tell what they will
do. Then there are so many murders committed, and the police never catch
the murderers,” and I finished with a sob that would have broken up an
audience of _blase_ critics. She gave a sudden and convulsive start, and
I knew my first stroke had gone home. It was amusing to see what a
remarkably short time it took her to get up from her chair and to
whisper hurriedly: “I’ll come back to talk with you after awhile.” I
knew she would not come back and she did not.
When the supper-bell rang I went along with the others to the basement
and partook of the evening meal, which was similar to dinner, except
that there was a smaller bill of fare and more people, the women who are
employed outside during the day having returned. After the evening meal
we all adjourned to the parlors, where all sat, or stood, as there were
not chairs enough to go round.
It was a wretchedly lonely evening, and the light which fell from the
solitary gas jet in the parlor, and oil-lamp in the hall, helped to
envelop us in a dusky hue and dye our spirits a navy blue, I felt it
would not require many inundations of this atmosphere to make me a fit
subject for the place I was striving to reach.
[Illustration: NELLIE’S FIRST MEAL AT THE HOME.]
I watched two women, who seemed of all the crowd to be the most
sociable, and I selected them as the ones to work out my salvation, or,
more properly speaking, my condemnation and conviction. Excusing myself
and saying that I felt lonely, I asked if I might join their company.
They graciously consented, so with my hat and gloves on, which no one
had asked me to lay aside, I sat down and listened to the rather
wearisome conversation, in which I took no part, merely keeping up my
sad look, saying “Yes,” or “No,” or “I can’t say,” to their
observations. Several times I told them I thought everybody in the house
looked crazy, but they were slow to catch on to my very original remark.
One said her name was Mrs. King and that she was a Southern woman. Then
she said that I had a Southern accent. She asked me bluntly if I did not
really come from the South. I said “Yes.” The other woman got to talking
about the Boston boats and asked me if I knew at what time they left.
For a moment I forgot my _role_ of assumed insanity, and told her the
correct hour of departure. She then asked me what work I was going to
do, or if I had ever done any. I replied that I thought it very sad that
there were so many working people in the world. She said in reply that
she had been unfortunate and had come to New York, where she had worked
at correcting proofs on a medical dictionary for some time, but that her
health had given way under the task, and that she was now going to
Boston again. When the maid came to tell us to go to bed I remarked that
I was afraid, and again ventured the assertion that all the women in the
house seemed to be crazy. The nurse insisted on my going to bed. I asked
if I could not sit on the stairs, but she said, decisively: “No; for
every one in the house would think you were crazy.” Finally I allowed
them to take me to a room.
Here I must introduce a new personage by name into my narrative. It is
the woman who had been a proofreader, and was about to return to Boston.
She was a Mrs. Caine, who was as courageous as she was good-hearted. She
came into my room, and sat and talked with me a long time, taking down
my hair with gentle ways. She tried to persuade me to undress and go to
bed, but I stubbornly refused to do so. During this time a number of the
inmates of the house had gathered around us. They expressed themselves
in various ways. “Poor loon!” they said. “Why, she’s crazy enough!” “I
am afraid to stay with such a crazy being in the house.” “She will
murder us all before morning.” One woman was for sending for a policeman
to take me away at once. They were all in a terrible and real state of
fright.
No one wanted to be responsible for me, and the woman who was to occupy
the room with me declared that she would not stay with that “crazy
woman” for all the money of the Vanderbilts. It was then that Mrs. Caine
said she would stay with me. I told her I would like to have her do so.
So she was left with me. She didn’t undress, but lay down on the bed,
watchful of my movements. She tried to induce me to lie down, but I was
afraid to do this. I knew that if I once gave way I should fall asleep
and dream as pleasantly and peacefully as a child. I should, to use a
slang expression, be liable to “give myself dead away.” I had made up my
mind to stay awake all night. So I insisted on sitting on the side of
the bed and staring blankly at vacancy. My poor companion was put into a
wretched state of unhappiness. Every few moments she would rise up to
look at me. She told me that my eyes shone terribly brightly and then
began to question me, asking me where I had lived, how long I had been
in New York, what I had been doing, and many things besides. To all her
questionings I had but one response—I told her that I had forgotten
everything, that ever since my headache had come on I could not
remember.
Poor soul! How cruelly I tortured her, and what a kind heart she had!
But how I tortured all of them! One of them dreamed of me—as a
nightmare. After I had been in the room an hour or so, I was myself
startled by hearing a woman screaming in the next room. I began to
imagine that I was really in an insane asylum.
Mrs. Caine woke up, looked around, frightened, and listened. She then
went out and into the next room, and I heard her asking another woman
some questions. When she came back she told me that the woman had had a
hideous nightmare. She had been dreaming of me. She had seen me, she
said, rushing at her with a knife in my hand, with the intention of
killing her. In trying to escape me she had fortunately been able to
scream, and so to awaken herself and scare off her nightmare. Then Mrs.
Caine got into bed again, considerably agitated, but very sleepy.
I was weary, too, but I had braced myself up to the work, and was
determined to keep awake all night so as to carry on my work of
impersonation to a successful end in the morning. I heard midnight. I
had yet six hours to wait for daylight. The time passed with
excruciating slowness. Minutes appeared hours. The noises in the house
and on the avenue ceased.
Fearing that sleep would coax me into its grasp, I commenced to review
my life. How strange it all seems! One incident, if never so trifling,
is but a link more to chain us to our unchangeable fate. I began at the
beginning, and lived again the story of my life. Old friends were
recalled with a pleasurable thrill; old enmities, old heartaches, old
joys were once again present. The turned-down pages of my life were
turned up, and the past was present.
When it was completed, I turned my thoughts bravely to the future,
wondering, first, what the next day would bring forth, then making plans
for the carrying out of my project. I wondered if I should be able to
pass over the river to the goal of my strange ambition, to become
eventually an inmate of the halls inhabited by my mentally wrecked
sisters. And then, once in, what would be my experience? And after? How
to get out? Bah! I said, they will get me out.
That was the greatest night of my existence. For a few hours I stood
face to face with “self!”
I looked out toward the window and hailed with joy the slight shimmer of
dawn. The light grew strong and gray, but the silence was strikingly
still. My companion slept. I had still an hour or two to pass over.
Fortunately I found some employment for my mental activity. Robert Bruce
in his captivity had won confidence in the future, and passed his time
as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances, by watching the
celebrated spider building his web. I had less noble vermin to interest
me. Yet I believe I made some valuable discoveries in natural history. I
was about dropping off to sleep in spite of myself when I was suddenly
startled to wakefulness. I thought I heard something crawl and fall down
upon the counterpane with an almost inaudible thud.
I had the opportunity of studying these interesting animals very
thoroughly. They had evidently come for breakfast, and were not a little
disappointed to find that their principal _plat_ was not there. They
scampered up and down the pillow, came together, seemed to hold
interesting converse, and acted in every way as if they were puzzled by
the absence of an appetizing breakfast. After one consultation of some
length they finally disappeared, seeking victims elsewhere, and leaving
me to pass the long minutes by giving my attention to cockroaches, whose
size and agility were something of a surprise to me.
My room companion had been sound asleep for a long time, but she now
woke up, and expressed surprise at seeing me still awake and apparently
as lively as a cricket. She was as sympathetic as ever. She came to me
and took my hands and tried her best to console me, and asked me if I
did not want to go home. She kept me up-stairs until nearly everybody
was out of the house, and then took me down to the basement for coffee
and a bun. After that, partaken in silence, I went back to my room,
where I sat down, moping. Mrs. Caine grew more and more anxious. “What
is to be done?” she kept exclaiming. “Where are your friends?” “No,” I
answered, “I have no friends, but I have some trunks. Where are they? I
want them.” The good woman tried to pacify me, saying that they would be
found in good time. She believed that I was insane.
Yet I forgive her. It is only after one is in trouble that one realizes
how little sympathy and kindness there is in the world. The women in the
Home who were not afraid of me had wanted to have some amusement at my
expense, and so they had bothered me with questions and remarks that had
I been insane would have been cruel and inhumane. Only this one woman
among the crowd, pretty and delicate Mrs. Caine, displayed true womanly
feeling. She compelled the others to cease teasing me and took the bed
of the woman who refused to sleep near me. She protested against the
suggestion to leave me alone and to have me locked up for the night so
that I could harm no one. She insisted on remaining with me in order to
administer aid should I need it. She smoothed my hair and bathed my brow
and talked as soothingly to me as a mother would do to an ailing child.
By every means she tried to have me go to bed and rest, and when it drew
toward morning she got up and wrapped a blanket around me for fear I
might get cold; then she kissed me on the brow and whispered,
compassionately:
“Poor child, poor child!”
How much I admired that little woman’s courage and kindness. How I
longed to reassure her and whisper that I was not insane, and how I
hoped that, if any poor girl should ever be so unfortunate as to be what
I was pretending to be, she might meet with one who possessed the same
spirit of human kindness possessed by Mrs. Ruth Caine.