SOME UNFORTUNATE STORIES.
By this time I had made the acquaintance of the greater number of the
forty-five women in hall 6. Let me introduce a few. Louise, the pretty
German girl whom I have spoken of formerly as being sick with fever, had
the delusion that the spirits of her dead parents were with her. “I have
gotten many beatings from Miss Grady and her assistants,” she said, “and
I am unable to eat the horrible food they give us. I ought not to be
compelled to freeze for want of proper clothing. Oh! I pray nightly that
I may be taken to my papa and mamma. One night, when I was confined at
Bellevue, Dr. Field came; I was in bed, and weary of the examination. At
last I said: ‘I am tired of this. I will talk no more.’ ‘Won’t you?’ he
said, angrily. ‘I’ll see if I can’t make you.’ With this he laid his
crutch on the side of the bed, and, getting up on it, he pinched me very
severely in the ribs. I jumped up straight in bed, and said: ‘What do
you mean by this?’ ‘I want to teach you to obey when I speak to you,’ he
replied. If I could only die and go to papa!” When I left she was
confined to bed with a fever, and maybe by this time she has her wish.
There is a Frenchwoman confined in hall 6, or was during my stay, whom I
firmly believe to be perfectly sane. I watched her and talked with her
every day, excepting the last three, and I was unable to find any
delusion or mania in her. Her name is Josephine Despreau, if that is
spelled correctly, and her husband and all her friends are in France.
Josephine feels her position keenly. Her lips tremble, and she breaks
down crying when she talks of her helpless condition. “How did you get
here?” I asked.
“One morning as I was trying to get breakfast I grew deathly sick, and
two officers were called in by the woman of the house, and I was taken
to the station-house. I was unable to understand their proceedings, and
they paid little attention to my story. Doings in this country were new
to me, and before I realized it I was lodged as an insane woman in this
asylum. When I first came I cried that I was here without hope of
release, and for crying Miss Grady and her assistants choked me until
they hurt my throat, for it has been sore ever since.”
A pretty young Hebrew woman spoke so little English I could not get her
story except as told by the nurses. They said her name is Sarah
Fishbaum, and that her husband put her in the asylum because she had a
fondness for other men than himself. Granting that Sarah was insane, and
about men, let me tell you how the nurses tried to cure(?) her. They
would call her up and say:
“Sarah, wouldn’t you like to have a nice young man?”
“Oh, yes; a young man is all right,” Sarah would reply in her few
English words.
“Well, Sarah, wouldn’t you like us to speak a good word to some of the
doctors for you? Wouldn’t you like to have one of the doctors?”
And then they would ask her which doctor she preferred, and advise her
to make advances to him when he visited the hall, and so on.
I had been watching and talking with a fair-complexioned woman for
several days, and I was at a loss to see why she had been sent there,
she was so sane.
“Why did you come here?” I asked her one day, after we had indulged in a
long conversation.
“I was sick,” she replied.
“Are you sick mentally?” I urged.
“Oh, no; what gave you such an idea? I had been overworking myself, and
I broke down. Having some family trouble, and being penniless and
nowhere to go, I applied to the commissioners to be sent to the
poorhouse until I would be able to go to work.”
“But they do not send poor people here unless they are insane,” I said.
“Don’t you know there are only insane women, or those supposed to be so,
sent here?”
“I knew after I got here that the majority of these women were insane,
but then I believed them when they told me this was the place they sent
all the poor who applied for aid as I had done.”
“How have you been treated?” I asked. “Well, so far I have escaped a
beating, although I have been sickened at the sight of many and the
recital of more. When I was brought here they went to give me a bath,
and the very disease for which I needed doctoring and from which I was
suffering made it necessary that I should not bathe. But they put me in,
and my sufferings were increased greatly for weeks thereafter.”
A Mrs. McCartney, whose husband is a tailor, seems perfectly rational
and has not one fancy. Mary Hughes and Mrs. Louise Schanz showed no
obvious traces of insanity.
One day two newcomers were added to our list. The one was an idiot,
Carrie Glass, and the other was a nice-looking German girl—quite young,
she seemed, and when she came in all the patients spoke of her nice
appearance and apparent sanity. Her name was Margaret. She told me she
had been a cook, and was extremely neat. One day, after she had scrubbed
the kitchen floor, the chambermaids came down and deliberately soiled
it. Her temper was aroused and she began to quarrel with them; an
officer was called and she was taken to an asylum.
“How can they say I am insane, merely because I allowed my temper to run
away with me?” she complained. “Other people are not shut up for crazy
when they get angry. I suppose the only thing to do is to keep quiet and
so avoid the beatings which I see others get. No one can say one word
about me. I do everything I am told, and all the work they give me. I am
obedient in every respect, and I do everything to prove to them that I
am sane.”
One day an insane woman was brought in. She was noisy, and Miss Grady
gave her a beating and blacked her eye. When the doctors noticed it and
asked if it was done before she came there the nurses said it was.
While I was in hall 6 I never heard the nurses address the patients
except to scold or yell at them, unless it was to tease them. They spent
much of their time gossiping about the physicians and about the other
nurses in a manner that was not elevating. Miss Grady nearly always
interspersed her conversation with profane language, and generally began
her sentences by calling on the name of the Lord. The names she called
the patients were of the lowest and most profane type. One evening she
quarreled with another nurse while we were at supper about the bread,
and when the nurse had gone out she called her bad names and made ugly
remarks about her.
In the evenings a woman, whom I supposed to be head cook for the
doctors, used to come up and bring raisins, grapes, apples, and crackers
to the nurses. Imagine the feelings of the hungry patients as they sat
and watched the nurses eat what was to them a dream of luxury.
One afternoon, Dr. Dent was talking to a patient, Mrs. Turney, about
some trouble she had had with a nurse or matron. A short time after we
were taken down to supper and this woman who had beaten Mrs. Turney, and
of whom Dr. Dent spoke, was sitting at the door of our dining-room.
Suddenly Mrs. Turney picked up her bowl of tea, and, rushing out of the
door flung it at the woman who had beat her. There was some loud
screaming and Mrs. Turney was returned to her place. The next day she
was transferred to the “rope gang,” which is supposed to be composed of
the most dangerous and most suicidal women on the island.
At first I could not sleep and did not want to so long as I could hear
anything new. The night nurses may have complained of the fact. At any
rate one night they came in and tried to make me take a dose of some
mixture out of a glass “to make me sleep,” they said. I told them I
would do nothing of the sort and they left me, I hoped, for the night.
My hopes were vain, for in a few minutes they returned with a doctor,
the same that received us on our arrival. He insisted that I take it,
but I was determined not to lose my wits even for a few hours. When he
saw I was not to be coaxed he grew rather rough, and said he had wasted
too much time with me already. That if I did not take it he would put it
into my arm with a needle. It occurred to me that if he put it into my
arm I could not get rid of it, but if I swallowed it there was one hope,
so I said I would take it. I smelt it and it smelt like laudanum, and it
was a horrible dose. No sooner had they left the room and locked me in
than I tried to see how far down my throat my finger would go, and the
chloral was allowed to try its effect elsewhere.
I want to say that the night nurse, Burns, in hall 6, seemed very kind
and patient to the poor, afflicted people. The other nurses made several
attempts to talk to me about lovers, and asked me if I would not like to
have one. They did not find me very communicative on the—to them—popular
subject.
Once a week the patients are given a bath, and that is the only time
they see soap. A patient handed me a piece of soap one day about the
size of a thimble. I considered it a great compliment in her wanting to
be kind, but I thought she would appreciate the cheap soap more than I,
so I thanked her but refused to take it. On bathing day the tub is
filled with water, and the patients are washed, one after the other,
without a change of water. This is done until the water is really thick,
and then it is allowed to run out and the tub is refilled without being
washed. The same towels are used on all the women, those with eruptions
as well as those without. The healthy patients fight for a change of
water, but they are compelled to submit to the dictates of the lazy,
tyrannical nurses. The dresses are seldom changed oftener than once a
month. If the patient has a visitor, I have seen the nurses hurry her
out and change her dress before the visitor comes in. This keeps up the
appearance of careful and good management.
The patients who are not able to take care of themselves get into
beastly conditions, and the nurses never look after them, but order some
of the patients to do so.
For five days we were compelled to sit in the room all day. I never put
in such a long time. Every patient was stiff and sore and tired. We
would get in little groups on benches and torture our stomachs by
conjuring up thoughts of what we would eat first when we got out. If I
had not known how hungry they were and the pitiful side of it, the
conversation would have been very amusing. As it was it only made me
sad. When the subject of eating, which seemed to be the favorite one,
was worn out, they used to give their opinions of the institution and
its management. The condemnation of the nurses and the eatables was
unanimous.
As the days passed Miss Tillie Mayard’s condition grew worse. She was
continually cold and unable to eat of the food provided. Day after day
she sang in order to try to maintain her memory, but at last the nurse
made her stop it. I talked with her daily, and I grieved to find her
grow worse so rapidly. At last she got a delusion. She thought that I
was trying to pass myself off for her, and that all the people who
called to see Nellie Brown were friends in search of her, but that I, by
some means, was trying to deceive them into the belief that I was the
girl. I tried to reason with her, but found it impossible, so I kept
away from her as much as possible, lest my presence should make her
worse and feed the fancy.
One of the patients, Mrs. Cotter, a pretty, delicate woman, one day
thought she saw her husband coming up the walk. She left the line in
which she was marching and ran to meet him. For this act she was sent to
the Retreat. She afterward said:
“The remembrance of that is enough to make me mad. For crying the nurses
beat me with a broom-handle and jumped on me, injuring me internally, so
that I shall never get over it. Then they tied my hands and feet, and,
throwing a sheet over my head, twisted it tightly around my throat, so I
could not scream, and thus put me in a bathtub filled with cold water.
They held me under until I gave up every hope and became senseless. At
other times they took hold of my ears and beat my head on the floor and
against the wall. Then they pulled my hair out by the roots, so that it
will never grow in again.”
Mrs. Cotter here showed me proofs of her story, the dent in the back of
her head and the bare spots where the hair had been taken out by the
handful. I give her story as plainly as possible: “My treatment was not
as bad as I have seen others get in there, but it has ruined my health,
and even if I do get out of here I will be a wreck. When my husband
heard of the treatment given me he threatened to expose the place if I
was not removed, so I was brought here. I am well mentally now. All that
old fear has left me, and the doctor has promised to allow my husband to
take me home.”
I made the acquaintance of Bridget McGuinness, who seems to be sane at
the present time. She said she was sent to Retreat 4, and put on the
“rope gang.” “The beatings I got there were something dreadful. I was
pulled around by the hair, held under the water until I strangled, and I
was choked and kicked. The nurses would always keep a quiet patient
stationed at the window to tell them when any of the doctors were
approaching. It was hopeless to complain to the doctors, for they always
said it was the imagination of our diseased brains, and besides we would
get another beating for telling. They would hold patients under the
water and threaten to leave them to die there if they did not promise
not to tell the doctors. We would all promise, because we knew the
doctors would not help us, and we would do anything to escape the
punishment. After breaking a window I was transferred to the Lodge, the
worst place on the island. It is dreadfully dirty in there, and the
stench is awful. In the summer the flies swarm the place. The food is
worse than we get in other wards and we are given only tin plates.
Instead of the bars being on the outside, as in this ward, they are on
the inside. There are many quiet patients there who have been there for
years, but the nurses keep them to do the work. Among other beatings I
got there, the nurses jumped on me once and broke two of my ribs.
“While I was there a pretty young girl was brought in. She had been
sick, and she fought against being put in that dirty place. One night
the nurses took her and, after beating her, they held her naked in a
cold bath, then they threw her on her bed. When morning came the girl
was dead. The doctors said she died of convulsions, and that was all
that was done about it.
“They inject so much morphine and chloral that the patients are made
crazy. I have seen the patients wild for water from the effect of the
drugs, and the nurses would refuse it to them. I have heard women beg
for a whole night for one drop and it was not given them. I myself cried
for water until my mouth was so parched and dry that I could not speak.”
I saw the same thing myself in hall 7. The patients would beg for a
drink before retiring, but the nurses—Miss Hart and the others—refused
to unlock the bathroom that they might quench their thirst.