THE LAST GOOD-BYE.
The day Pauline Moser was brought to the asylum we heard the most
horrible screams, and an Irish girl, only partly dressed, came
staggering like a drunken person up the hall, yelling, “Hurrah! Three
cheers! I have killed the divil! Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer,” and so on,
over and over again. Then she would pull a handful of hair out, while
she exultingly cried, “How I deceived the divils. They always said God
made hell, but he didn’t.” Pauline helped the girl to make the place
hideous by singing the most horrible songs. After the Irish girl had
been there an hour or so, Dr. Dent came in, and as he walked down the
hall, Miss Grupe whispered to the demented girl, “Here is the devil
coming, go for him.” Surprised that she would give a mad woman such
instructions, I fully expected to see the frenzied creature rush at the
doctor. Luckily she did not, but commenced to repeat her refrain of “Oh,
Lucifer.” After the doctor left, Miss Grupe again tried to excite the
woman by saying the pictured minstrel on the wall was the devil, and the
poor creature began to scream, “You divil, I’ll give it to you,” so that
two nurses had to sit on her to keep her down. The attendants seemed to
find amusement and pleasure in exciting the violent patients to do their
worst.
I always made a point of telling the doctors I was sane and asking to be
released, but the more I endeavored to assure them of my sanity the more
they doubted it.
“What are you doctors here for?” I asked one, whose name I cannot
recall.
“To take care of the patients and test their sanity,” he replied.
“Very well,” I said. “There are sixteen doctors on this island, and,
excepting two, I have never seen them pay any attention to the patients.
How can a doctor judge a woman’s sanity by merely bidding her good
morning and refusing to hear her pleas for release? Even the sick ones
know it is useless to say anything, for the answer will be that it is
their imagination.” “Try every test on me,” I have urged others, “and
tell me am I sane or insane? Try my pulse, my heart, my eyes; ask me to
stretch out my arm, to work my fingers, as Dr. Field did at Bellevue,
and then tell me if I am sane.” They would not heed me, for they thought
I raved.
Again I said to one, “You have no right to keep sane people here. I am
sane, have always been so and I must insist on a thorough examination or
be released. Several of the women here are also sane. Why can’t they be
free?”
“They are insane,” was the reply, “and suffering from delusions.”
After a long talk with Dr. Ingram, he said, “I will transfer you to a
quieter ward.” An hour later Miss Grady called me into the hall, and,
after calling me all the vile and profane names a woman could ever
remember, she told me that it was a lucky thing for my “hide” that I was
transferred, or else she would pay me for remembering so well to tell
Dr. Ingram everything. “You d—n hussy, you forget all about yourself,
but you never forget anything to tell the doctor.” After calling Miss
Neville, whom Dr. Ingram also kindly transferred, Miss Grady took us to
the hall above, No. 7.
[Illustration: INSANE HALL NO. 7.]
In hall 7 there are Mrs. Kroener, Miss Fitzpatrick, Miss Finney, and
Miss Hart. I did not see as cruel treatment as down-stairs, but I heard
them make ugly remarks and threats, twist the fingers and slap the faces
of the unruly patients. The night nurse, Conway I believe her name is,
is very cross. In hall 7, if any of the patients possessed any modesty,
they soon lost it. Every one was compelled to undress in the hall before
their own door, and to fold their clothes and leave them there until
morning. I asked to undress in my room, but Miss Conway told me if she
ever caught me at such a trick she would give me cause not to want to
repeat it.
The first doctor I saw here—Dr. Caldwell—chucked me under the chin, and
as I was tired refusing to tell where my home was, I would only speak to
him in Spanish.
Hall 7 looks rather nice to a casual visitor. It is hung with cheap
pictures and has a piano, which is presided over by Miss Mattie Morgan,
who formerly was in a music store in this city. She has been in the
asylum for three years. Miss Mattie has been training several of the
patients to sing, with some show of success. The artiste of the hall is
Under, pronounced Wanda, a Polish girl. She is a gifted pianist when she
chooses to display her ability. The most difficult music she reads at a
glance, and her touch and expression are perfect.
On Sunday the quieter patients, whose names have been handed in by the
attendants during the week, are allowed to go to church. A small
Catholic chapel is on the island, and other services are also held.
A “commissioner” came one day, and made the rounds with Dr. Dent. In the
basement they found half the nurses gone to dinner, leaving the other
half in charge of us, as was always done. Immediately orders were given
to bring the nurses back to their duties until after the patients had
finished eating. Some of the patients wanted to speak about their having
no salt, but were prevented.
The insane asylum on Blackwell’s Island is a human rat-trap. It is easy
to get in, but once there it is impossible to get out. I had intended to
have myself committed to the violent wards, the Lodge and Retreat, but
when I got the testimony of two sane women and could give it, I decided
not to risk my health—and hair—so I did not get violent.
I had, toward the last, been shut off from all visitors, and so when the
lawyer, Peter A. Hendricks, came and told me that friends of mine were
willing to take charge of me if I would rather be with them than in the
asylum, I was only too glad to give my consent. I asked him to send me
something to eat immediately on his arrival in the city, and then I
waited anxiously for my release.
It came sooner than I had hoped. I was out “in line” taking a walk, and
had just gotten interested in a poor woman who had fainted away while
the nurses were trying to compel her to walk. “Good-bye; I am going
home,” I called to Pauline Moser, as she went past with a woman on
either side of her. Sadly I said farewell to all I knew as I passed them
on my way to freedom and life, while they were left behind to a fate
worse than death. “_Adios_,” I murmured to the Mexican woman. I kissed
my fingers to her, and so I left my companions of hall 7.
I had looked forward so eagerly to leaving the horrible place, yet when
my release came and I knew that God’s sunlight was to be free for me
again, there was a certain pain in leaving. For ten days I had been one
of them. Foolishly enough, it seemed intensely selfish to leave them to
their sufferings. I felt a Quixotic desire to help them by sympathy and
presence. But only for a moment. The bars were down and freedom was
sweeter to me than ever.
Soon I was crossing the river and nearing New York. Once again I was a
free girl after ten days in the mad-house on Blackwell’s Island.