IN THE BATH.
A few more songs and we were told to go with Miss Grupe. We were taken
into a cold, wet bathroom, and I was ordered to undress. Did I protest?
Well, I never grew so earnest in my life as when I tried to beg off.
They said if I did not they would use force and that it would not be
very gentle. At this I noticed one of the craziest women in the ward
standing by the filled bathtub with a large, discolored rag in her
hands. She was chattering away to herself and chuckling in a manner
which seemed to me fiendish. I knew now what was to be done with me. I
shivered. They began to undress me, and one by one they pulled off my
clothes. At last everything was gone excepting one garment. “I will not
remove it,” I said vehemently, but they took it off. I gave one glance
at the group of patients gathered at the door watching the scene, and I
jumped into the bathtub with more energy than grace.
[Illustration: THE RECEPTION-ROOM.]
The water was ice-cold, and I again began to protest. How useless it all
was! I begged, at least, that the patients be made to go away, but was
ordered to shut up. The crazy woman began to scrub me. I can find no
other word that will express it but scrubbing. From a small tin pan she
took some soft soap and rubbed it all over me, even all over my face and
my pretty hair. I was at last past seeing or speaking, although I had
begged that my hair be left untouched. Rub, rub, rub, went the old
woman, chattering to herself. My teeth chattered and my limbs were
goose-fleshed and blue with cold. Suddenly I got, one after the other,
three buckets of water over my head—ice-cold water, too—into my eyes, my
ears, my nose and my mouth. I think I experienced some of the sensations
of a drowning person as they dragged me, gasping, shivering and quaking,
from the tub. For once I did look insane. I caught a glance of the
indescribable look on the faces of my companions, who had witnessed my
fate and knew theirs was surely following. Unable to control myself at
the absurd picture I presented, I burst into roars of laughter. They put
me, dripping wet, into a short canton flannel slip, labeled across the
extreme end in large black letters, “Lunatic Asylum, B. I., H. 6.” The
letters meant Blackwell’s Island, Hall 6.
By this time Miss Mayard had been undressed, and, much as I hated my
recent bath, I would have taken another if by it I could have saved her
the experience. Imagine plunging that sick girl into a cold bath when it
made me, who has never been ill, shake as if with ague. I heard her
explain to Miss Grupe that her head was still sore from her illness. Her
hair was short and had mostly come out, and she asked that the crazy
woman be made to rub more gently, but Miss Grupe said:
“There isn’t much fear of hurting you. Shut up, or you’ll get it worse.”
Miss Mayard did shut up, and that was my last look at her for the night.
I was hurried into a room where there were six beds, and had been put
into bed when some one came along and jerked me out again, saying:
“Nellie Brown has to be put in a room alone to-night, for I suppose
she’s noisy.”
I was taken to room 28 and left to try and make an impression on the
bed. It was an impossible task. The bed had been made high in the center
and sloping on either side. At the first touch my head flooded the
pillow with water, and my wet slip transferred some of its dampness to
the sheet. When Miss Grupe came in I asked if I could not have a
night-gown.
“We have no such things in this institution,” she said.
“I do not like to sleep without,” I replied.
“Well, I don’t care about that,” she said. “You are in a public
institution now, and you can’t expect to get anything. This is charity,
and you should be thankful for what you get.”
“But the city pays to keep these places up,” I urged, “and pays people
to be kind to the unfortunates brought here.”
“Well, you don’t need to expect any kindness here, for you won’t get
it,” she said, and she went out and closed the door.
[Illustration: HER BEDROOM.]
A sheet and an oilcloth were under me, and a sheet and black wool
blanket above. I never felt anything so annoying as that wool blanket as
I tried to keep it around my shoulders to stop the chills from getting
underneath. When I pulled it up I left my feet bare, and when I pulled
it down my shoulders were exposed. There was absolutely nothing in the
room but the bed and myself. As the door had been locked I imagined I
should be left alone for the night, but I heard the sound of the heavy
tread of two women down the hall. They stopped at every door, unlocked
it, and in a few moments I could hear them relock it. This they did
without the least attempt at quietness down the whole length of the
opposite side of the hall and up to my room. Here they paused. The key
was inserted in the lock and turned. I watched those about to enter. In
they came, dressed in brown and white striped dresses, fastened by brass
buttons, large, white aprons, a heavy green cord about the waist, from
which dangled a bunch of large keys, and small, white caps on their
heads. Being dressed as were the attendants of the day, I knew they were
nurses. The first one carried a lantern, and she flashed its light into
my face while she said to her assistant:
“This is Nellie Brown.” Looking at her, I asked:
“Who are you?”
“The night nurse, my dear,” she replied, and, wishing that I would sleep
well, she went out and locked the door after her. Several times during
the night they came into my room, and even had I been able to sleep, the
unlocking of the heavy door, their loud talking, and heavy tread, would
have awakened me.
I could not sleep, so I lay in bed picturing to myself the horrors in
case a fire should break out in the asylum. Every door is locked
separately and the windows are heavily barred, so that escape is
impossible. In the one building alone there are, I think Dr. Ingram told
me, some three hundred women. They are locked, one to ten to a room. It
is impossible to get out unless these doors are unlocked. A fire is not
improbable, but one of the most likely occurrences. Should the building
burn, the jailers or nurses would never think of releasing their crazy
patients. This I can prove to you later when I come to tell of their
cruel treatment of the poor things intrusted to their care. As I say, in
case of fire, not a dozen women could escape. All would be left to roast
to death. Even if the nurses were kind, which they are not, it would
require more presence of mind than women of their class possess to risk
the flames and their own lives while they unlocked the hundred doors for
the insane prisoners. Unless there is a change there will some day be a
tale of horror never equaled.
In this connection is an amusing incident which happened just previous
to my release. I was talking with Dr. Ingram about many things, and at
last told him what I thought would be the result of a fire.
“The nurses are expected to open the doors,” he said.
“But you know positively that they would not wait to do that,” I said,
“and these women would burn to death.”
He sat silent, unable to contradict my assertion.
“Why don’t you have it changed?” I asked.
“What can I do?” he replied. “I offer suggestions until my brain is
tired, but what good does it do? What would you do?” he asked, turning
to me, the proclaimed insane girl.
“Well, I should insist on them having locks put in, as I have seen in
some places, that by turning a crank at the end of the hall you can lock
or unlock every door on the one side. Then there would be some chance of
escape. Now, every door being locked separately, there is absolutely
none.”
Dr. Ingram turned to me with an anxious look on his kind face as he
asked, slowly:
“Nellie Brown, what institution have you been an inmate of before you
came here?”
“None. I never was confined in any institution, except boarding-school,
in my life.”
“Where then did you see the locks you have described?”
I had seen them in the new Western Penitentiary at Pittsburg, Pa., but I
did not dare say so. I merely answered:
“Oh, I have seen them in a place I was in—I mean as a visitor.”
“There is only one place I know of where they have those locks,” he
said, sadly, “and that is at Sing Sing.”
The inference is conclusive. I laughed very heartily over the implied
accusation, and tried to assure him that I had never, up to date, been
an inmate of Sing Sing or even ever visited it.
Just as the morning began to dawn I went to sleep. It did not seem many
moments until I was rudely awakened and told to get up, the window being
opened and the clothing pulled off me. My hair was still wet and I had
pains all through me, as if I had the rheumatism. Some clothing was
flung on the floor and I was told to put it on. I asked for my own, but
was told to take what I got and keep quiet by the apparently head nurse,
Miss Grady. I looked at it. One underskirt made of coarse dark cotton
goods and a cheap white calico dress with a black spot in it. I tied the
strings of the skirt around me and put on the little dress. It was made,
as are all those worn by the patients, into a straight tight waist sewed
on to a straight skirt. As I buttoned the waist I noticed the underskirt
was about six inches longer than the upper, and for a moment I sat down
on the bed and laughed at my own appearance. No woman ever longed for a
mirror more than I did at that moment.
I saw the other patients hurrying past in the hall, so I decided not to
lose anything that might be going on. We numbered forty-five patients in
Hall 6, and were sent to the bathroom, where there were two coarse
towels. I watched crazy patients who had the most dangerous eruptions
all over their faces dry on the towels and then saw women with clean
skins turn to use them. I went to the bathtub and washed my face at the
running faucet and my underskirt did duty for a towel.
Before I had completed my ablutions a bench was brought into the
bathroom. Miss Grupe and Miss McCarten came in with combs in their
hands. We were told to sit down on the bench, and the hair of forty-five
women was combed with one patient, two nurses, and six combs. As I saw
some of the sore heads combed I thought this was another dose I had not
bargained for. Miss Tillie Mayard had her own comb, but it was taken
from her by Miss Grady. Oh, that combing! I never realized before what
the expression “I’ll give you a combing” meant, but I knew then. My
hair, all matted and wet from the night previous, was pulled and jerked,
and, after expostulating to no avail, I set my teeth and endured the
pain. They refused to give me my hairpins, and my hair was arranged in
one plait and tied with a red cotton rag. My curly bangs refused to stay
back, so that at least was left of my former glory.
After this we went to the sitting-room and I looked for my companions.
At first I looked vainly, unable to distinguish them from the other
patients, but after awhile I recognized Miss Mayard by her short hair.
“How did you sleep after your cold bath?”
“I almost froze, and then the noise kept me awake. It’s dreadful! My
nerves were so unstrung before I came here, and I fear I shall not be
able to stand the strain.”
I did the best I could to cheer her. I asked that we be given additional
clothing, at least as much as custom says women shall wear, but they
told me to shut up; that we had as much as they intended to give us.
We were compelled to get up at 5.30 o’clock, and at 7.15 we were told to
collect in the hall, where the experience of waiting, as on the evening
previous, was repeated. When we got into the dining-room at last we
found a bowl of cold tea, a slice of buttered bread and a saucer of
oatmeal, with molasses on it, for each patient. I was hungry, but the
food would not down. I asked for unbuttered bread and was given it. I
cannot tell you of anything which is the same dirty, black color. It was
hard, and in places nothing more than dried dough. I found a spider in
my slice, so I did not eat it. I tried the oatmeal and molasses, but it
was wretched, and so I endeavored, but without much show of success, to
choke down the tea.
After we were back to the sitting-room a number of women were ordered to
make the beds, and some of the patients were put to scrubbing and others
given different duties which covered all the work in the hall. It is not
the attendants who keep the institution so nice for the poor patients,
as I had always thought, but the patients, who do it all themselves—even
to cleaning the nurses’ bedrooms and caring for their clothing.
About 9.30 the new patients, of which I was one, were told to go out to
see the doctor. I was taken in and my lungs and my heart were examined
by the flirty young doctor who was the first to see us the day we
entered. The one who made out the report, if I mistake not, was the
assistant superintendent, Ingram. A few questions and I was allowed to
return to the sitting-room.
I came in and saw Miss Grady with my notebook and long lead pencil,
bought just for the occasion.
“I want my book and pencil,” I said, quite truthfully. “It helps me
remember things.”
I was very anxious to get it to make notes in and was disappointed when
she said:
“You can’t have it, so shut up.”
Some days after I asked Dr. Ingram if I could have it, and he promised
to consider the matter. When I again referred to it, he said that Miss
Grady said I only brought a book there; that I had no pencil. I was
provoked, and insisted that I had, whereupon I was advised to fight
against the imaginations of my brain.
After the housework was completed by the patients, and as the day was
fine, but cold, we were told to go out in the hall and get on shawls and
hats for a walk. Poor patients! How eager they were for a breath of air;
how eager for a slight release from their prison. They went swiftly into
the hall and there was a skirmish for hats. Such hats!
[Illustration: AN INSANE HALL.]